by Nancy Holder
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 had the 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 Slayer busy-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 eyewitness report were astronomical. Given evidence that Hellmouth 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 varying 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.”
“I would,” Buffy said. “How’s my mom doing?”
“Not too badly so far.” Ms. Calendar glanced toward Joyce. “I made her give up a pair of lace gloves she found at the sale. She told me she had tried them on.”
“And exposed herself to the Hellmouth horror that’s stripping away her skin.” Buffy sighed.
“That’s not your fault,” Ms. Calendar said.
Buffy wasn’t sure that was true. She couldn’t protect everybody from everything all the time, but she had known her mom was coming to the school, and she had promised to help unload the car. If she had been there, maybe her mother would have left immediately and avoided the contamination.
Bobby Farrow walked up. “Here’s that stuff you wanted, Ms. Calendar.” He handed her a small, wide-mouth jar and the key to the computer classroom. He left quickly.
Ms. Calendar gave Buffy the jar. “This is just an ordinary herbal balm. It won’t cure the infection, but it might relieve your mom’s itch.”
Buffy walked over to her mom, trying not to jostle the teenage patients and wishing she could mute the moans and sobs. Few knew the true nature of the enemy, and somehow that made the misery more heart wrenching.
The school nurse and two other healthy teachers had pitched in to staff the sickroom. Like her mom, they probably assumed that an offic
ial disease-control agency had been contacted and that medical help would arrive soon. They didn’t know their fate was in the hands of a librarian and two teenage girls.
Buffy paused by Michael, who blocked the aisle. He was still in a fetal position and appeared to be asleep, but he didn’t seem to be in pain. She stepped over him.
“Buffy! Sit down.” Her mom patted the empty desk chair beside her.
“Here’s Ms. Calendar’s skin cream.” Buffy held out the jar. When her mother didn’t reach for it, she set it down. “How are you doing?”
“Better than this poor boy.” Joyce’s voice was filled with pity for Karl. His closed eyelids were as depressed as his cheeks, covering empty sockets. “He couldn’t stop crying, and now he’s completely dehydrated.”
Buffy averted her gaze and touched the jar. “This might help your itch.”
“I hope so. I think it’s spreading.” Joyce leaned in, speaking softly. “Ms. Calendar took these beautiful black lace gloves I wanted to buy. Your great-grandmother had a pair just like them.”
“All the sale stuff is probably contaminated,” Buffy explained. That wasn’t a lie. She just didn’t mention the demonic origins part.
“You seem to be okay.” Joyce looked relieved.
“So far,” Buffy said. She hadn’t touched any of the rummage sale donations since last night. “Look, I’ve got to go. I just wanted to make—”
“Go?” Joyce looked surprised. “I thought you’d stay here and help. There aren’t enough staff volunteers, and all these kids are suffering so much.”
“I will be helping, Mom. Just not here.” Buffy knew that sounded lame, but telling the truth wasn’t an option. “Try the cream.”
Joyce picked up the jar, but her fingers were so raw she couldn’t twist the lid off.
“Here, I’ll do that.” Buffy reached out, but her mom pulled the jar back.
“I’ll get it,” Joyce said. “You go on and do whatever it is you think you have to do.”
Buffy stood up, ignoring the hint of accusation in her mother’s tone. The strangling sound of acute respiratory distress diverted their attention.
Ms. Calendar raced over to Mrs. Monroe, the teacher stricken with hives. The woman was covered with masses of purple welts and mounds. She heaved, wheezing and struggling for air.
“The hives are blocking her nose,” the nurse said.
Ms. Calendar tried to force the teacher’s mouth open. “Her mouth is swollen with welts. They’re blocking off her airways!”
The nurse pulled a ballpoint pen out of her pocket. “I’ve never done an emergency tracheotomy before, but—”
Mrs. Monroe gagged and convulsed.
Buffy watched as the nurse tried to drive the pen into the teacher’s bulging flesh. She couldn’t pierce the skin.
“The hives are choking her from the inside,” Ms. Calendar announced with commendable calm. “They’re clogging her throat. There’s nothing we can do.”
“There must be something,” the nurse objected.
“You can stand back,” Ms. Calendar said. “No one must touch her after . . . she’s gone.”
“We can’t just leave her here!” the nurse protested.
“You can if you don’t want to die the same way,” Ms. Calendar said bluntly. “The hives weren’t a threat while she was alive, but chances are they’ll be looking for a new victim after she dies. If so, they’ll move to whoever touches her first.”
The nurse quickly stepped back.
Buffy’s chest constricted as she watched. There wasn’t anything she could do to save the woman either, and it tore her apart.
So I’ll just have to save the day, she thought as she hurried out. Patrolling would restore her sense of being in control, of doing something useful, of fighting back. She turned toward the cafeteria, setting her sights on the six-legged coffee lizard.
Halfway across the corridor, Andrew almost bowled her over. Thrown off balance, Buffy stumbled but stayed on her feet.
Andrew ducked behind her, using her as a shield. “He’s trying to kill me!”
Jonathan barreled down the corridor toward them, cracking the bullwhip and laughing maniacally. As he closed in, he drew the whip back.
“Oh no, you don’t!” Xander sprang to his feet and lunged at Jonathan, intending to tackle and take him down.
Surprisingly faster and more nimble, Jonathan jumped clear. He snapped the whip, striking Xander.
Xander collapsed to his knees, his torso and arms shaking violently.
“Hurts like hell, doesn’t it?” Andrew yelled.
“That’s not simple static buildup,” Buffy observed as Jonathan drew back to hit Xander again.
“Static electricity doesn’t pack a million volts,” Andrew said. “And the shocks get stronger every time Jonathan snaps that whip. He’s working his way up to electrocution.”
“Xander!” Buffy shouted a warning. “Look out!”
“Yeehaw!” Jonathan let the rawhide fly.
Xander came to his senses and scrambled aside, narrowly escaping the lash.
“Stop it, Jonathan!” Buffy was sure the boy’s zealous whip-snappy compulsion was being fueled by another Hellmouth culprit. She didn’t want to hurt the kid, but she couldn’t let his electric reign of terror continue unchecked. “I mean it!”
“I don’t care!” Delirious with power, Jonathan flipped the whip back and snapped it toward her.
Buffy snatched the thong out of the air, breaking the momentum of the lash. However, that didn’t stop the electrical jolt that sizzled through her, zapping every nerve and muscle in her body. Unlike Xander, she had the Slayer’s healing capacity and quickly recovered from the massive shock.
The eel-like critter twined around the dangling strip of thin leather caught Buffy’s attention. She held on to the heavier part of the whip and yanked the handle out of Jonathan’s grasp, wrapping a loop of leather around the base of the eel’s head and pulling on both ends.
The creature uncoiled from the thong and twisted, trying to get away from Buffy’s leather stranglehold. Blue-white electrical bolts and red sparks crackled and spewed out of its round mouth. A series of shocks shot through Buffy’s hands and arms, each one diminishing in intensity. When the eel’s energy was spent, she gave a final tug and severed the blackened head from the elongated body.
For a moment Buffy and the three boys stared at the dead parts on the floor.
“What’s that?” Jonathan asked, bewildered. “Where am I? What’s happening?”
As Buffy started to explain, Andrew grabbed the whip out of her hand.
“Take my advice, Jonathan.” Andrew grinned with evil intent. “Run!”
Jonathan’s big brown eyes got bigger when Andrew snapped the bullwhip. He turned and ran.
“Get him, Andrew!” Rubbing his arms to restore the circulation, Xander watched the boys skid and disappear around a corner. “Are there any more of those living electrical sockets hanging around?”
“Actually, I saw a tiny one come out of the leather and wrap itself around the cracker just before Andrew grabbed the whip. But on the bright side, one down and who knows how many gazillion to go,” Buffy said.
“That many?” Xander looked up and down the corridor as he moved back to the utility room door.
“At least,” Buffy teased. She wanted Xander to stay put. No place in the school was safe from airborne microbes or other too-tiny-to-see pests. But if something larger came down the deserted corridor, he’d have a chance to escape. “And at my current critter-slaying rate, it’ll take a few centuries to kill them all, so wish me good hunting!”
“Centuries?” Xander asked anxiously. “You mean hours, right? Or maybe a couple of days?”
Waving over her shoulder, Buffy ducked into the restroom. Despite her lack of symptoms, she reminded herself that she could be infected with something that took longer to disable its victim. If not, just being in the school put her at risk. Still, she had to proceed as though it was pos
sible to stay vermin-free. Paper towels were handy and might protect her if she had to touch something in the cafeteria.
Before she touched the paper towels, Buffy leaned over to check on Harmony’s condition.
The blond girl was lying on the floor in the stall, but Buffy couldn’t tell how deep the wrinkles had gotten. A lacy network of pink and green fibers grew out of the creases that covered her face. But they won’t be looking for a new host just yet, Buffy thought as she stuffed paper towels in the waistband of her skirt. Harmony was still breathing.
Buffy’s spirits improved as she entered the cafeteria. Throttling the sparks out of the electric eel made her feel less like a helpless bystander and more like an empowered warrior. That feeling only lasted until she saw a flash of orange zoom past a black orb near Cordelia’s jewelry display. She was hunting animals that acted on fight or flight instincts, not cunning evil intellects with major reps in the underworld. She had been demoted to Demonic Lizard Slayer.
For the moment only, Buffy thought as she used a paper towel to grip the handle of Ms. Calendar’s coffee mug. She didn’t know if cold coffee would work as bait, but it was worth a try.
Buffy moved slowly past the table that held the gallery donations, looking around, under, and behind all the collectibles and antiques. Her gaze swept over the black orb the lizard had darted by then zipped right back. Most black things had tinges of color or weren’t even black, but shades of very dark browns. The space occupied by the black orb looked like a bottomless hole in the table. She stared at the piece, reminded of the day her dad had taken her to Lancaster to see the stealth fighter fly. The plane was so black, it had created a similar optical illusion, like a hole in the sky. The fascinating darkness of the orb drew her in.
Something sticky touched her arm, snapping Buffy out of her daze. She inhaled slightly but didn’t jerk her hand out from under the little lizard. She had no idea how the beast had climbed up without her noticing.