Jonathan and Andrew were arguing in the hall outside the cafeteria. Buffy used the pay phone again, trying to reach her mother’s cell phone. Giles stopped to demand that Jonathan hand over the whip.
The usually timid boy refused. He stuffed the whip in his locker, slammed the door closed, and stood in front of it with his arms folded.
“Are either of you feeling anything unusual?” Unwilling to physically force a student to obey, Giles resorted to a less confrontational method: inquiry. “Headaches, nausea—”
“My wrist hurts,” Jonathan said.
“That’s because you keep snapping that whip at me!” Andrew’s temper flared. “And I’m getting really tired of being shocked.”
“Repeatedly?” Giles asked.
“Yeah.” Andrew glared at Jonathan. “And it hurts worse every time.”
Buffy left a message on her mom’s voice mail, but she was positive it was too late. Her mother was a stickler for rules. She would have turned off her cell phone in the school. “I think she’s already here, Giles. Come on.”
Buffy saw her mom the instant she entered the cafeteria. She was helping Deirdre arrange the gallery pieces on the collectible table and, judging from the animated conversation, educating the girl on the histories and values. Hiding her dismay, Buffy smiled and waved.
Spotting her, Buffy’s mom started to leave the table. Deirdre, however, still wanted her help and pulled her back. Joyce shrugged and held up a finger, signaling Buffy that she’d break away as soon as she could.
Take your time, Mom, Buffy thought. In addition to the danger of contracting a creeping crud disease, having her mother around made being a fully functional Slayer harder.
“Hello, Mr. Giles,” Ms. Calendar greeted him with a warm smile. “I’m surprised to see you here.”
“You are? Why?” Giles asked, perplexed.
“We don’t have any books with a copyright date older than 1943,” she joked.
“You’re not referring to a book published in 1943 by a Hungarian chap called—” Giles caught himself and coughed self-consciously. “Actually I think it’s important to support the student body in its charitable efforts.”
“Yes, it is.” Ms Calendar smiled as they looked deep into each other’s eyes.
Buffy nudged Giles to get him back on track. “Except certain student bodies are having a really bad day.”
“What? Oh, yes.” Giles drew Ms. Calendar over to the wall where they wouldn’t be overheard.
It was 11:50, ten minutes before the sale opened. Housewives, retirees, and wealthy bargain hunters were probably already lined up at the building entrance Principal Snyder had designated for rummage sale use.
Buffy made a quick survey of the room as she moved aside with Giles and Ms. Calendar. As before, nothing seemed wrong at first glance. Willow was straightening the stacks of shirts. The blue scarf and a furry white thing—her illegal early sale acquisitions—were on the chair. Oz ran back in and hurried over to Xander at the music table. Devon had either blown them off or hadn’t arrived yet. Xander was wearing the camouflage vest. Michael Czajak was looking through everything on every table, still searching for his lost protection charm. As she watched, he jerked his hand out of a woman’s handbag and put his thumb in his mouth, as though something sharp had stuck him.
Or bit him? Buffy wondered. Karl Torlette, a lanky basketball player, sat with his head in his hands. Traci Benedict was curled up in a donated reclining chair, asleep or unconscious.
Her sweeping Slayer gaze stopped on Principal Snyder. He still wore the hat, but he had taken off his shirt, shoes, and socks. Barefoot and bare-chested, he stood with several colorful and drab, narrow and wide ties hanging from his neck and arms. His movements were spastic, like a robot that had short-circuited and couldn’t complete a command. A thin line of blood had dried on the skin in front of his ear.
“How sure are you about this?” Ms. Calendar asked Giles.
“I’m sure,” Buffy said, interjecting her opinion into the discussion. “Something’s not right.”
“I wish we could be more specific,” Giles added, “but until we know more, we should isolate the affected areas.”
“A quarantine?” Ms. Calendar frowned. “The cafeteria or the whole school?”
“The whole school, I’m afraid,” Giles said. “We don’t know what it is, where it started, or how far it’s spread. Will you contact the school office and have them post teachers at all the exits? No one can be allowed to enter or leave.”
Ms. Calendar hesitated. “We can’t tell the staff they might be infected with something. They’ll panic.”
“Excellent point.” Giles ran his hand over his head and stared at the floor. “I might be able to conjure a ward to seal the building, to keep everyone inside in and everyone else out”—he looked up—“but it will take time.”
“Just tell the teachers a rival school gang is loose in the building,” Buffy suggested, “and Principal Snyder doesn’t want them to get away before the cops arrive.”
Giles nodded. “That might work temporarily.”
Buffy glanced at the deranged principal. “And he won’t contradict you.”
“At least the sale hasn’t started.” Ms. Calendar spoke as she moved to the intraschool phone on the wall. “And I’d better call the Mayor. Maybe he hasn’t left his office yet.”
With the initial emergency response implemented, Buffy’s thoughts focused on her mother. So far the evidence suggested that the unknown bad thing was probably connected to the sale donations. The gallery items hadn’t been inside the school when the first symptoms erupted. Her mom might not be infected—yet. No one could leave the school, but her mother would be safer in the library.
Xander came up as Buffy turned to go get her.
“The vest looks good on you,” Buffy said.
“It’s a little tight, but I’m afraid to take it off.”
“For what reason?” Giles asked.
“If I put it down”—Xander looked at Buffy—“someone might hide it as a childish act of revenge.”
“Let’s just call it even, okay?” Buffy didn’t want to be distracted by silly, adolescent games. “We’ve got other things to worry about.”
“Right,” Xander agreed. “Like Willow.”
“Willow?” Buffy’s heart lurched with alarm. “What’s wrong with Willow?”
“Her personality’s taken a distinctly nasty turn.” Xander tugged on the sides of the zippered vest, trying to loosen it. “She’s turned into a supershrew, just like that Kate lady in the play.”
Giles looked stunned. “You’re familiar with The Taming of the Shrew by William Shakespeare?”
“We read it in class,” Xander said. “I even took notes, for pointers on how to deal with Cordelia—and other shrewish females, like Willow the raging maniac.”
“She’s raging?” Buffy frowned.
“Truth.” Xander mimicked a shrill, female voice. “ ‘Get away from my cute thing!’ ”
Buffy looked at Xander askance. “What thing?”
“Some weird stuffed animal she found.” Xander shook his head, bewildered and upset. “She calls it Cutie.”
“Oh, dear.” Giles squinted, his gaze riveted on Willow. She was sitting in the chair again, rocking with the blue scarf and fuzzy thing. “I don’t believe that’s a toy.”
“What else could it be?” Xander asked.
“Not a myth, as most scholars have assumed.” Giles was suddenly a torrent of information. “It’s a kur, a lesser creature indigenous to the Hellmouth—a demonic rat, so to speak.”
“Hellmouth rats are white, furry, and adorable?” Buffy asked. The concept was difficult to process.
“Apparently, yes,” Giles said. “Every ecological system has lower life forms that support the higher ones, and it’s been hypothesized that the Hellmouth is no exception.”
“And demons eat cute things like treats.” The disgusting idea made Buffy cringe. During one of his dir
e warnings, Angel had let slip that demons craved kittens.
“Will it eat Willow?” Xander asked, aghast.
“No, but”—Giles jumped right into lecture mode, but this time Buffy was all ears—“such a creature would be completely defenseless in any environment without a protector. The kur establishes a psychic link with a stronger being, who becomes obsessively protective of it. It’s a remarkable, if somewhat insidious, survival mechanism.”
“That explains why Willow almost bit my head off—verbally speaking,” Xander said. “But how did a Hellmouth rat get into the Sunnydale High School cafeteria?”
“We’ve got more than Hellmouth rats,” Buffy pointed out. “Whatever’s eating Cordelia’s teeth and Principal Snyder’s head are not cute and cuddly.”
“I’m sure,” Giles agreed. “If a kur breached the barrier, then we can assume that other varieties of Hell-mouth pests did as well.”
“And infested the rummage sale items we stored in the basement,” Buffy concluded. “So is this the mystical convergence, only-a-matter-of-time, fresh hell breaking loose you warned me about?”
“It’s not a manifestation I anticipated, but yes, that would describe it,” Giles said.
Ms. Calendar entered just in time to catch the last few comments. “The school’s locked down, but did I hear you correctly? We’ve got a Hellmouth infestation?”
“Evil bugs and other assorted lowlifes,” Xander said.
“But we closed the Hellmouth,” Ms. Calendar reminded them. “How could anything get out?”
“Closed, yes, but the barrier must have been weakened when the Master was released,” Giles said. “Apparently it leaks—just enough to let the vermin through.”
Buffy stole a glance at her mother. She was still with Deirdre by the gallery boxes and showing no signs of disease or distress.
A shrill scream echoed in the hallway.
“Sounds like somebody looked in the mirror,” Buffy said.
Cordelia burst through the doors. Her strawlike hair stood straight up, forming a scarecrow halo around her head. Her front teeth were almost entirely black. Wild-eyed and in shock, she stopped in front of Giles and held out her hand.
“They—they just . . . fell off.” Several fingernails lay in Cordelia’s palm. They had turned to brown mush embedded with bits of pink polish.
Giles turned to Buffy and Ms. Calendar. “I’ll go see about casting the spell to seal the building. Let’s just hope nothing has escaped the school.”
“None of the sale items were taken out, so we’re probably good on that,” Buffy observed.
“We’ll find out soon enough,” Giles said.
“Teachers are covering all the doors to make sure no one leaves or comes in,” Ms Calendar reported. “They didn’t question the gang story, and they’re telling everyone the sale opening will be delayed until the police apprehend the troublemakers. I doubt many people will wait long.”
“Disappointment is infinitely preferable to mystical disease,” Giles observed dryly. “Once the binding spell is active, nothing will be able to exit or enter. In the meantime it would be wise to move everyone with symptoms into an isolation ward. We may be too late to stop the spread within the school, but every precaution must be taken.”
“We’ll take care of it,” Ms. Calendar said.
“Is middle-age weight gain catching?” Xander pulled on the edge of the camouflage fabric around his waist. “I’m gaining weight just standing here.”
* * *
Spike stood with his back against the door. He didn’t know how long they’d been under siege in the storeroom, but their ordeal was far from over. When he cracked the door to look out ten minutes back, a sentry bat had almost forced its way in. The other red beasts were hanging from pipes and rafters, taking a nap while they waited for their cornered prey to emerge. The bats had the advantage.
He also had to make sure Dru didn’t get out.
A potential ally of the bats, Drusilla huddled in the corner, staring at him with a vampire’s yellow eyes. However, the heavy bone that formed her demonic brow was receding. Scalloped ridges were forming in her ears, which had elongated into large, triangular shapes. Her fangs glistened against the bloodred interior of her mouth, and her nose had flattened.
In a bizarre twist of fate, his beautiful Drusilla was being transformed into one of the beasts that had bitten her.
“I smell fresh blood all packaged nice, like in tender teenagers,” Drusilla snarled. “But she’s in the cave with them, all shrouded in a dark where I can’t see.”
Spike assumed she was referring to Buffy. The Slayer’s powerful presence befuddled Dru’s senses, but he had no doubt the girl was nearby. She was always in the middle of it when mystical mayhem erupted, and something dreadful had gotten all bollixed up.
Vampires turned people into vampires. They did not get turned into bats.
“See that, now.” Dru held up her arm and touched the leathery skin flap that connected her elbow and ribs. They were growing on both sides, expanding to form membranes between her wrists and ankles. “Feathers wilt if the sparrow doesn’t fly, and now she has naked wings.”
Spike’s dead heart broke for her. She was stalked by many irrational fears in her mad mind, worrying that her hair might fall out or that she’d fade out of existence. He felt guilty now for being impatient with her crazed concerns, even though he usually suppressed it. She had once fretted that her long nails would turn into talons, but she had never imagined this.
“Your darling Dru wants her dinner, Spike.” Dru’s words slurred slightly as her mouth and chin began to change into a short snout.
Logic was all too often beyond Dru’s ability to comprehend when she was her daft and vicious self. Spike doubted his reasoning about anything would make sense to the animal personality asserting control. He tried nonetheless, more to work things out in his own mind then to convince Dru.
“Well, here’s the rub about feeding,” Spike said. “First, all your cousins are hanging between us and a way out of here. We can’t get upstairs or out the hatch into the tunnels.”
A look of total terror widened Dru’s eyes. “The wretched li’l munchers have eaten the basket!”
“It’s by your foot,” Spike said calmly, “under your skirt.”
Frantic, Dru clawed at the fabric with fingers that had fused together. When she uncovered the basket, she hooked her hand through the handle and heaved it toward Spike.
The basket smashed against the door a few inches from Spike’s head, and the contents spilled when it hit the floor. He didn’t flinch. A sudden move might trigger an attack, and he wanted to save Dru, not kill her to save himself.
Dru’s fit of temper passed. Crawling forward, she mumbled as she collected her treasures. “I can hear Miss Edith laughing, making fun of mummy, all elbows and knees. There’ll be no bedtime torture for her tonight, and no songs until someone fetches a mouse.”
There won’t be any prey today, Spike thought, unless she wants to foul her fangs on four-legged rodents. Students and faculty were off the menu until he figured out how to counter the poison in her system. The demonic world had a plethora of bad omens and cautionary tales, but in all his travels he had never heard a word about red bats with vampirelike venom in their bite. It followed that a cure, if one existed, might have to come from the good guys.
The Slayer and the librarian were his only hope for making Dru better. Killing anyone in the school would end his chances of getting their help.
* * *
“Is that everyone?” Giles asked as he joined Buffy and Ms. Calendar outside the cafeteria. The double-size classroom across the hall was serving as a triage area and infirmary for the afflicted. Sale volunteers who hadn’t exhibited any symptoms were isolated in the next room down.
“Everyone who’s got something that can’t be missed,” Ms. Calendar said.
Not quite everyone, Buffy thought, glancing down the hall. Xander and her mother were pleading with Cor
delia to come out of the utility closet. Harmony was still hiding in the restroom. As long as they stayed locked away, neither girl would pass their Hellmouth afflictions on to anyone else. Willow had shrieked, then held her breath until she turned blue when they had asked her to leave Cutie behind. She had stayed in the cafeteria, content to hold Cutie and rock. The white kur seemed to be the only one of its kind that had made it through the barrier. At least, they hadn’t discovered any others.
“How bad off are they, do you think?” Giles asked.
“I’m really worried about Principal Snyder,” Ms. Calendar said. “Buffy’s assessment was accurate. He actually does have holes in his head.”
Buffy glanced through the classroom door. Principal Snyder lay on his back across three student desks that had been pushed together. His mental capacity had undergone several downgrades in a couple of hours, from foolish to imbecilic to catatonic. The hat had been removed and put into a kitchen trash can along with everything else they knew was a source of pestilence. However, they didn’t know if they had found everything or if the contagions could be controlled.
“Possibly some kind of brain bore,” Giles muttered, studying the comatose principal from the doorway.
Ms. Calendar took exception to Giles’s pragmatic tone. “All these people are going to die if we don’t find a way to fix this.”
“Then we’ll fix it.” Buffy’s confident attitude was all bravado. She didn’t want to admit that she felt overwhelmed by the task.
Killing one huge scary thing was a lot easier than trying to identify and combat a hundred little demon thingies. A lot of the creepy critters were microscopic and invisible to the naked eye. There could be a thousand or a million different Hellmouth bugs crawling around the school. One magickal bug bomb or an enchanted fly swatter probably couldn’t exterminate all of them.
“What do we do now?” Ms. Calendar asked.
“Back to the library for me,” Giles said. “Assuming the binding spell was successful, it will keep everything locked in—”
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