“And everyone else locked out?” Buffy didn’t want to add police and other municipal officials to the list of pests she had to deal with.
“The Mayor agreed to honor the quarantine,” Ms. Calendar said. “I told him we could be dealing with food poisoning or a highly contagious plague.”
“The plague of a zillion wee beasties,” Buffy said.
“Which we have to kill or neutralize.” Giles turned to leave, then stepped back. “We should probably isolate Willow and the kur. Tell her I need help with some computer research in the library.”
“You’re not worried she’ll smash the screen and then rip your head off?” Buffy asked.
“She seems to function normally as long as her furry friend feels safe,” Giles said. “If you don’t threaten the kur, I’m sure she’ll agree to help. In light of that, it probably wouldn’t be a good idea to reveal that her new pet came from the Hellmouth.”
“Don’t mention that Cutie’s a demon rat. Got it.” Buffy paused, bracing herself. She wasn’t sure how to handle Willow if she became violent.
“I realize there’s a good chance of becoming infected yourself,” Giles said to Ms. Calendar, “but these children need attention. Would you—”
“Stay with them? Of course,” Ms. Calendar said. There was no question that she would do whatever was necessary.
“Me too.” Joyce walked up, smiling through her worry and stress. “Since we’re quarantined, I might as well make myself useful.”
Buffy didn’t even consider trying to talk her mom out of helping Ms. Calendar. Joyce Summers never turned her back on people in trouble, and Buffy knew she wouldn’t start now. On the plus side, her mom didn’t seem to be breaking out with a corrosive microbe infection. At least one that I can see, she reminded herself.
“How are you feeling, Mom?”
“I’m fine.” Joyce smiled to reassure Buffy and turned to Giles. “Do they have any idea why so many kids are getting sick?”
“They?” Giles frowned, forgetting for a moment that Joyce Summers wasn’t in the Slayer loop.
“The medical authorities in charge.” Joyce turned to Ms. Calendar with an irritated expression. “Do you have any hand lotion? I’ve had dry, chapped hands before, but never like this. The itch is driving me crazy.”
Giles and Ms. Calendar both looked at Buffy.
Buffy was focused on the large flakes of paper-thin skin peeling off her mom’s hand and drifting to the floor. Not just unsightly dandruff and an itch, she thought. Some of the other conditions had seemed harmless at first too. Considering how those were progressing, her mom could shed enough skin to expose the muscle. If that happened, the pain would be excruciating, and death would be a blessed relief.
“I have some cream in my desk,” Ms. Calendar told Joyce. “It’s an herbal blend, an old family recipe I make myself. I’ll send one of the boys to get it.”
“Thank you.” Joyce glanced at Buffy, frowning with maternal concern. “Do you have any symptoms, Buffy?”
“No.” Buffy answered honestly. Her mother, however, didn’t seem to realize that she was being skinned alive, like an onion—one layer at a time. “But I don’t think a cream is going to—”
“Go help Willow, Buffy,” Ms. Calendar interjected. Her gaze was as commanding as her teacher tone. “We’ll take care of things here.”
“The sooner all the medical authorities are on the job,” Giles added pointedly, “the sooner the afflictions can be cured. I’ll be in the library.”
Message received, Buffy thought as Giles hurried away. The best way to help her mom and the stricken students was to get the Scooby medics moving. “I’ll, uh, go see Willow.”
The deserted cafeteria reminded Buffy of a movie ghost town—everything had been left in place when the people suddenly or mysteriously vanished. The carefully collected, sorted, and priced merchandise waited for shoppers who wouldn’t come. The cash box sat unattended and in no danger of being stolen on the table near the door. Nobody wanted money that would burn a hole in a pocket then eat through flesh and bone. It all seemed so normal, except for the quiet and the bright orange, six-legged lizard that crawled out of a mug of cold coffee.
Buffy headed down the center aisle toward Willow, taking care not to touch anything. When she arrived, Willow watched her warily, waiting for her to make the first move.
“Giles needs you in the library,” Buffy said lightly.
“Why?” Willow eyed her with undisguised suspicion.
“For the same reason he always needs you,” Buffy said. “You’re the computer genius. I don’t have a clue how to track down some weird evil disease on the information highway.”
“A disease?” Willow perked up, intrigued. “Like demon pox or monster measles or fiend flu? That kind of disease?”
“That’s pretty close, actually. Giles thinks Principal Snyder has brain bores.”
“That can’t be good.” Willow shuddered at the gruesome thought.
“It’s not. So come on. Grab your stuff and let’s go.” As she walked away, Buffy sensed Willow’s hesitation, but she didn’t look back. Willow’s indecision only lasted a moment and she ran to catch up.
“If there are demon germs, are there demon doctors?” Willow clutched the blue scarf close to her chest. Curls of white fur gave away the kur hidden inside.
“Good question. I don’t know, but Giles might.” Buffy saw the furry rat watching her from the corner of her eye, sizing her up or trying to gauge her intent. Since being discovered might prompt Cutie to engage its defenses—aka Willow—she pretended not to notice it.
“Why is Xander talking to a door?” Willow asked as they stepped into the hall.
“He’s talking to Cordelia,” Buffy clarified. “She won’t come out. I wouldn’t either if I was turning into compost.”
“That doesn’t sound good either,” Willow said as they drew closer. She pulled the edge of the scarf up to hide a tuft of Cutie’s white fur. “Giles needs the search-and-research team in the library, Xander. Coming?”
Buffy stood behind Willow, ready to signal Xander to ignore the little beast. However, his thoughts were solely on Cordelia.
“Can’t.” Xander shrugged an apology. “I don’t want to leave Cordelia alone while she disintegrates into a disgusting heap of demon decay.”
Willow frowned. “I know Cordelia is mean and insulting and selfish, but if she’s sick, you probably shouldn’t gloat.”
“I’m not gloating,” Xander explained. “Would you kiss a mush mouth?”
“Why do you care about Cordelia’s rotting romantic appeal?” Buffy asked. Had he contracted a vigilance virus that compelled him to watch his tormentor suffer and maybe die?
“I don’t! It’s just that—” Xander squirmed uncomfortably. “Cordelia may be rich and conceited and convinced she’s better than everyone else, but she doesn’t deserve this.”
“Yeah, I know,” Buffy agreed with a wan smile. Despite his tough talk and the justifiable grudges Xander harbored against Cordelia Chase, he would never wish her harm.
“Are you okay?” Willow asked.
“Nothing a no-doughnut diet won’t fix,” Xander quipped.
Willow scowled. “Did you have doughnuts today? And you didn’t bring me one?”
“We’ll be in the library if you need us, Xander.” Buffy moved out, waving Willow to follow.
When they walked through the library doors, Giles was beside himself with exasperation. “There you are! It’s about time, which we don’t have much of, according to my calculations.”
Buffy and Willow exchanged a glance as he picked up a yellow pad and adjusted his glasses to read. Giles was so intensely dedicated to his duty as the Slayer’s Watcher that he didn’t realize he took Buffy and her friends’ presence for granted. They got annoyed, got over it, and got to work.
“What calculations?” Buffy asked.
“Based on the observable progression of the various disorders, everyone in the school cou
ld be dead by dawn—or permanently scarred.” Giles stole a glance at Willow. “Physically or mentally.”
“That bad, huh?” Buffy’s stomach churned with anxiety. “How do I fight bacteria from hell? We can’t get a prescription for an antibiotic from the demon drugstore. I mean, I can probably catch the orange lizard with a cup of coffee, but I can’t catch what I can’t see.”
“Unless you catch an evil illness,” Willow said. She sat down and put Cutie and the scarf on her lap. When she pulled the chair closer to the study table, the kur was hidden from view.
Buffy focused on Giles. “I can’t take out a fungus with a crossbow or stake a swarm of gnats. So what am I supposed to do?”
“Until I find a remedy, which I am determined to do,” Giles said calmly, “it might be a good idea to keep an eye on things at our makeshift infirmary, in the event a creature you can see shows itself. I doubt that all the intruders have found victims.”
“That works.” Buffy accepted the assignment with a definitive sense of relief. However, she intended to take the plan one step further to include a patrol of the school. She was the Slayer. She hunted and killed bad things. It would not go well for any Hellmouth pest that crossed her path.
* * *
“Do you need anything, Willow?” Giles lifted the stack of books he had selected and paused, waiting for a response.
He tried to sound casual, which was difficult when his every move was being tracked by dark, demonic eyes. Part of the kur’s face was visible in the gap between Willow and the table.
“I’m about to make a pot of tea,” Giles added.
“No, thanks. It’ll take awhile to check out everything you gave me.” Willow flashed an innocent smile, which was familiar yet not to be trusted while she was under Cutie’s demonic influence.
“I’ll be in my office, then,” Giles said, “doing some research in the texts.”
“I hope you have more luck than I’m having,” Willow said. “I haven’t found a single reference to these source words anywhere on the Net.”
“Yes, well—persevere.” Balancing the books against his chest, Giles entered his office and kicked the door closed. He set the stack down, turned on the kettle, and sank into his desk chair.
He’d be quite surprised if Willow’s web searches turned up a result. The words he had supplied were meaningless, intended as busy work to keep her in the practically deserted library where the kur would feel secure—he hoped. The animal was only a threat if it felt threatened, and Giles could only guess what it would construe as a danger. He had no doubt that Willow would kill to protect it, and he didn’t have any spells to save her from the mortal world’s justice system. Preventing an incident was the best way to protect her. Of all the creatures that had breached the barrier, he suspected the cute beast might prove to be the most dangerous, and perhaps the most difficult to dispose of.
While he waited for the water to boil, Giles shuffled through the books. Finding a means of eliminating the Hellmouth pests and curing the maladies was only one of the problems confounding him. Months had passed since the Master had breached the barrier, and no underworld animal life had broken through—until today. Something had driven them to leave their supernatural environment, but what?
The question nagged, but the health of the students was the priority. With nothing to go on but rational conjecture, Giles had formulated a theory utilizing the principals of scientific method.
Presented with solid evidence, Giles had established that a pyramid of lower to higher life forms existed within the Hellmouth. Every ecological system required balance to be self-sustaining, but no system was perfect. Human use of modern technology over a hundred years had altered the natural balance of the planet. Consequently unnatural practices had to be instituted to offset the ecological disruptions. Logically he could conclude that the Hellmouth operated on a similar premise.
Where there were pests, there had to be something to control them.
Buffy was a good example. As generations of Slayers before her, she kept vampires and other demonic entities from taking over the world. Without the girls who were chosen and trained to assume that responsibility, humanity would have long been extinct.
Or kept and raised as cattle to satisfy demonic appetites, Giles thought as he poured hot water into his cup.
Preferring the breakfast blends strongly brewed, Giles carried the tea to his desk to let it steep. He smiled as he sat down, pleased with the intensity of Buffy’s desire to take action. The infestation did present unusual circumstances the Slayer couldn’t combat with the weapons in her arsenal, and her frustration was understandable. Sending Buffy off on a vermin search-and-destroy mission amounted to busy Slayer work, an activity to keep her from feeling too restless.
Giles opened a volume that a monk had penned during the Dark Ages. The Bestiary of Hell had long been viewed as a fanciful work of macabre fiction. Even so, there were theories that during the centuries between 500 and 1000 A.D., the fabric between the mortal realm and the underworld may have been exceptionally porous. Could it have leaked, allowing small demonic animals to escape? Giles wondered as he checked the index. One of the illustrations answered the question.
The kur sitting on Willow’s lap was an exact match for a beast staring at him from the page.
The odds that a monk would accurately imagine a kur without having seen one or heard an eye-witness report were astronomical. Given evidence that Hell-mouth vermin had breached the barrier thirteen centuries before, Giles could safely deduce that all those invading beasties had been destroyed or sent back. Spurred by hope, he turned the pages quickly, perusing each entry and moving on to the next, looking for the solution.
He found the answer on the last page, where the documenting monk had recorded his firsthand experience.
Higher forces within the Hellmouth had empowered a lower-level demon to control pests. All Hellmouth animal entities were compelled to follow Pragoh when he called. In addition, the poisons, infectious agents, and other noxious effects the creatures spread were neutralized when the carriers fled. With the exception of those who had already died, victims were cured.
Pragoh was in essence a pied piper who might already be in the school tracking down the Hellmouth escapees. The relief Giles felt was quickly curbed by the thought of Buffy. The demon demon-hunter was the only means of saving the school and everyone in it—if Pragoh didn’t encounter Buffy first!
Chapter Five
Buffy was only mildly concerned for Giles’s safety. The Watcher was educated in the ways and wiles of evil beings and was always vigilant. He knew the danger Willow and the kur presented and wouldn’t provoke them. Her mother, on the other hand, was oblivious to the danger she faced.
At least she was the last time I saw her, Buffy thought, breaking into a jog. If her mom’s skin was peeling faster or coming off in thicker layers, she would be panicked and in terrible pain now. Postponing a patrol of the halls, Buffy went straight to the infirmary room from the library, passing Xander on the way. He was still sitting in the hall by the utility closet, but he was no longer trying to coax Cordelia out. He told Buffy that she had stopped talking.
“Can’t or won’t talk?” Buffy asked.
“Hard to say. She sounded better when I mentioned that she could wear professional fake nails until her own nails grew back out,” Xander explained. “But she started crying when I said that implants look just like real teeth.”
“Toothless grin would not be an image Cordelia could handle,” Buffy observed.
“Me either.” Xander gripped his stomach.
Buffy studied him closely. “Are you sick?”
“Nothing a rigorous exercise routine won’t cure,” Xander said. “Which I plan to start first thing tomorrow.”
Buffy doubted Xander would follow through, but it wouldn’t matter if they didn’t survive today.
The infirmary was a madhouse of chaos and calm. Some of the students had fallen into comas. Others displayed v
arying degrees of emotional and physical trauma, depending on their ailments. Girls and boys sobbed, threw fits, or writhed with seizures. A few were in shock and just stared at the floor, walls, or ceiling. Michael Czajak was curled up on the floor with his eyes closed. Two teachers had been admitted, one with uncontrollable coughing. Mrs. Monroe had purple hives growing in huge clumps all over her body.
Buffy’s gaze settled on her mother, who was sitting with Karl, the weepy basketball player. The boy’s eyes were sunken and his face gaunt. Joyce’s hands were tucked out of sight in her folded arms. Buffy crossed the room to confer with Ms. Calendar. The teacher wouldn’t try to soften the blow of difficult news.
Ms. Calendar stood over Principal Snyder’s makeshift bed. The first extraordinary anomaly that struck Buffy was his peaceful smile. Despite the worms sticking out of the honeycombed holes in his hairless head, the characteristically cranky man looked happy.
“Gross.” Buffy choked back the bile that rose in her throat. The irony of her reaction was not lost on her. She could face and fight hideously vile vampires and demons, but the sight of little green worms with razor sharp mandibles boring through bone into a man’s brain made her queasy.
“The stuff of nightmares,” Ms. Calendar said.
Principal Snyder giggled.
Buffy noted the slimy pink secretions on the tiny worm teeth. “They must be injecting him with joy juice,”
“Must be,” Ms. Calendar agreed. “Or having your brain consumed by minimonsters tickles.”
“Too bad the happy side effects will probably kill him,” Buffy quipped, then turned serious. “You haven’t gotten too close to them, have you?”
“Absolutely not,” Ms. Calendar said, appalled. “But proximity might not be a problem. I’ve noticed that no two people have developed identical symptoms.”
“That’s good, isn’t it?” Buffy asked.
“If people aren’t passing their infections on to other people, yes—very good. It would mean that once a Hellmouth parasite or disease finds a host, it’s content to stay put. I should probably call Giles.”
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