by Various
“The mosquitoes,” she explained. “They’re singling you out because you’re a foreigner.”
“I feel fairly certain that it has nothing to do with nationality,” Giles retorted.
“Well, the parade’s almost over,” she said in a soothing voice. “The fireworks will start, and then maybe the smell of the powder will drive them off.”
“Yes,” he said, still cranky. “The scent of burning sulphur always chases me away. I most certainly —” He stopped and frowned at her. “Jenny?”
Next to him on the blanket, she was suddenly sitting up very straight. “Giles, what’s that? There, at the tail end of the procession?”
Baffled, Giles craned his neck and tried to see where Jenny was indicating. When he found it, what he was seeing didn’t quite sink in: gray faces, blank eyes and blackened lips, the jerky movement of flesh and bone that didn’t function well anymore. Was it . . . could it be . . .
He was on his feet instantly, pulling her up with him. “Jenny, those are zombies!”
But when he would have looked for an escape route, she paused. “Wait, Giles. Look, there’s something odd about them. They aren’t attacking. . . . I think they’re marching.”
Every instinct screamed at him that they should run, but his curiosity was undeniably aroused. “Marching?” he asked. “As in, together?”
“Exactly.” She squeezed his hand. “Come on, let’s get closer and find out what’s going on.”
He wanted to say no, yet he couldn’t. Even with Buffy gone to L.A. for the summer, Cordelia off on vacation, and Xander and Willow gone for the evening to some dreadful rock-’n’-roll concert in a neighboring town, he was still a Watcher, still charged with a measure of responsibility toward this tiny metropolis. As long as the creatures weren’t actively munching down on the residents —
“All right,” he said. “But we need to be careful. Whatever’s keeping them civilized could change at any moment. Remember that.” Gripping her by the hand, he began to zigzag through the crowd, moving steadily to close the distance between their original spot and the newcomers. The people around him had grown suddenly quiet and still, their disbelieving gazes fixing on the mass of undead lined up in neat rows at the front entrance of City Hall.
“Oh, I think caution’s high on the brain’s fore-front,” Jenny said with forced lightness as she kept pace with him.
Since no one else seemed particularly inclined to get too close, it wasn’t hard for them to end up nearly at the front of the crowd. The rest of the spectators had lapsed into a nervous silence and now stood and watched the parade’s ending, unsure of what to make of the macabre appearance of the soldiers. The view was anything but pleasant, but at least Jenny and Giles could see what was going on.
“My God,” Jenny breathed. “It’s like a —”
“An army troop,” Giles finished for her. It was hard for him to accept that statement, but the proof was certainly in front of him — there were at least fifteen rows of soldiers, with each row containing eight men and a few women. Almost all of them were in uniform, and he’d bet that the ones who weren’t had still been, in one way or another, involved with the military when they’d been among the living. From the looks of it, most hadn’t been . . . aboveground in a while.
Except, perhaps, for their leader.
“Look,” Giles said to Jenny in a stage whisper and drew the now well-read pamphlet from his pocket. “The man at the front — see the dress military uniform? It’s General Samson Murray.”
She nodded. “I recognized him,” she said back, keeping her voice low. “Well . . . sort of. He’s a little, uh, ripe around the edges. Wait — he’s saying something. Is that Allan Finch, the Deputy Mayor, he’s talking to?”
Yes, it sure was and, being careful not to draw too much attention to themselves, he and Jenny inched closer. At about fifteen feet away, now they were mingling with the apprehensive people at the very front of the crowd, others like themselves who were perhaps a bit too curious for their own well-being. Cautiously, he and Jenny pressed even closer, until they were at the very fringe of Murray’s detachment.
Dead or not, Samson Murray presented an imposing figure, and his voice boomed over the crowd and the thin, cowering form of the Deputy Mayor. “Who’s in charge here? Step forward and account for yourself!”
“Rupert,” Jenny said under her breath, “did you notice his little military group is armed?”
And indeed they were. The ranks of soldiers stood at well-ordered attention, every one of them clutching, in military fashion, some implement or another. Most seemed to be carrying gardening tools — shovels, hoes, axes and miscellaneous — no doubt picked up along their trek from whatever grave had formerly been their home. Others, however, had somehow managed to acquire actual weapons such as rifles and bayonets. It might be that these men had been buried with them, and Giles could only hope that if that was the case, the families and funeral directors hadn’t thought it appropriate to include ammunition.
With great reluctance, the timorous Allan Finch stumbled forward; in fact, it looked very much like someone had given him a little push to get him going. “I-I-I’m in ch-charge,” he stammered. “Wh-what can I d-d-do for you?”
“My, doesn’t he just inspire confidence?” Jenny murmured, her expression never changing.
General Murray glared at Finch. “Where is Mayor Wilkins?” he rumbled.
“On vacation,” offered a man standing to the right of the Deputy Mayor. “He can’t be reached. I’m the Chief of Po —”
The General cut him off with a wave of one slightly blackened hand. “You are inconsequential.” He fixed his gaze on the Deputy Mayor again, eyes burning redly from sockets sunken deep into his skull. “Then I must deal with you.” He stepped closer and Finch obligingly backed up. “I am General Samson Murray of the United States Army. I know this town has been infiltrated with the enemy, and I demand that you surrender it to me immediately or face the consequences.”
Giles inhaled. “Oh, my heavens.”
Finch’s eyes widened. “Surrender the t-t-town? What do you m-mean —”
General Murray thrust his head forward, putting his nearly sunken nose almost up to Finch’s. “You speak English, don’t you? If not, go look it up.”
Allan Finch frowned uncertainly, the dilemma making him, finally, forget to stammer. “Of course I know what it means.” He hesitated, then looked at the Chief of Police and the other officers who had stepped up to stand close to him. Their hands were on the butts of their revolvers, and their faces were mistrustful and full of disgust as they surveyed the battalion in front of them. “And . . . if we don’t surrender?”
The General’s mouth stretched into a terrible rictus of a grin, showing yellowed teeth rimmed with brown. “Then of course we will attack, young man. I will order my troop to eliminate the enemy.”
The parade had wisely kept going, and Deputy Mayor Finch eyed the stiff-looking men waiting below, then the crowd gathered around them. His face took on a sly, slightly belligerent expression that Giles remembered well, because he’d seen it on the faces of hundreds of secretly rebellious students throughout his career.
“I do believe Mr. Deputy Mayor is going to tell the General to go scratch,” Giles said, slightly awed.
“I remember you,” Allan Finch said. “And you’re supposed to be dead. Mayor Wilkins isn’t around, so he doesn’t know about this. It’s some kind of hoax, right? A joke. I bet you and these so-called soldiers of yours are wearing Halloween make-up.” He shook his head, and even from where Giles and Jenny stood, there was no mistaking the stubborn, inarguable aura he projected when he folded his arms and lifted his chin. Foolish, perhaps, but Giles had to admire the way he’d gone from stammering idiot to complete self-assurance. Of course, that was going to evaporate soon enough. “So, General, I don’t think we’re going to —”
“Perhaps I can be of some assistance here,” Giles interrupted, cutting off the rest of Finch’s sen
tence before the man allowed his mouth to get in the way of common sense.
Samson Murray whirled and glared at him. “And you are?”
“Giles,” the librarian said, with as much exaggerated British inflection as he could manage. “Uh . . . Commander Giles, of the Allied Forces.”
“Why are you humoring him?” Finch demanded. “He —”
“One would think diplomacy is the best course of action in this instance,” Giles said hastily. He gave the Deputy Mayor a sharp glance. “In view of the safety of the townspeople.”
Finch scowled but wisely kept silent as the General paced toward Giles. “This is wartime. Why are you out of uniform?” he growled.
“I was on . . . a short holiday,” Giles improvised. “In any event, perhaps we can discuss matters —”
“I don’t discuss military matters with civilians,” Murray grated. Behind him, Giles saw the Chief of Police doing a fast fade into the depths of the building with Allan Finch, and no doubt many of the onlookers were being quietly ushered away by parade security. “I’ll give you a half-hour to return here properly attired, Commander. If you’re really who you say you are, that should pose no problem. If you don’t return, I shall assume I must instruct my army to take Sunnydale by force.”
They were disheveled and sweaty, but Giles was satisfied that at least they’d managed to keep the area in front of City Hall from being instantly turned into a mini-battleground. The police, no doubt, would have soon learned their bullets were useless against men who were already dead; it was damned difficult to kill an attacker who neither felt pain nor feared for his life. Most of the onlookers had managed to leave but some of the more unlucky ones had been rounded up by the General’s rotting soldiers and were now prisoners of war, held at bay by a handful of expressionless dead soldiers who would show no mercy to anyone.
“I can grab a uniform from the costume shop,” Giles told Jenny as they hurried into the library. “But first perhaps we can find something in one of my books that will tell us how this happened —”
“Try this.”
Both Giles and Jenny jumped as Angel stepped from the shadowed area by one of the bookcases. “I saw the esteemed General leaving his tomb. Apparently he was raised up by one of my less brain-empowered brethren,” the tall vampire said, sounding disgusted. “I followed him for a bit and saw him gathering his little army, so I decided to double-back and check out where he’d been buried.” He held up a rumpled piece of heavy parchment paper. “Take a look at this.”
Giles took the parchment and studied it. “A resurrection spell,” he said. “Marvelous. It couldn’t have happened to a nicer man. Jenny —”
“I’m already on it,” she said from behind him, and when he turned he saw her busily typing away at the computer keyboard. “Let’s see what we can find out about General Samson Murray that they might have left out of their glitzy Uncle Sam pamphlet.” After a second, she sat back, looking surprised. “Well.”
“What is it?” Giles asked as he and Angel came over to join her. “What did you find?”
“It seems he really was quite the war hero as the booklet said,” Jenny told them. “But you were right, too — he also had a very controversial military career. It seemed he was constantly being accused of cruel and inhumane treatment of prisoners and brutal disciplinary action toward soldiers. There was always some scandal or another going on.”
“Not the type one would consider a suitable dictator for our happy little town,” Giles commented.
“Precisely,” said Jenny. “Especially since you were also right about him spending the last years of his life in the psychiatric ward of the V.A. Center.”
Giles grimaced and rubbed his forehead as he examined the parchment again, then realized there was something on the back. “What’s this?”
Angel looked over his shoulder. “I can’t read that.”
Giles frowned at the strangely familiar markings, then his eyebrows raised. “Of course you can — anyone could! They’re backward, meant to be read using a mirror.”
Angel’s expression never wavered. “Guess I missed that. Mirrors not being my thing.”
Giles blinked. “Oh — of course.” He hurried behind the counter and rummaged around for a minute, then came up with a small, square mirror. “Let me — excellent!” The librarian beamed at the other two. “It’s a reversal spell, meant to return to their graves the General and those he, in turn, brought back.”
“Really?” Jenny looked doubtful. “Why does this sound far too easy?”
Angel looked pointedly at Giles. “Because he’s making it sound that way. Reversal spells are pretty common, aren’t they, Giles?” He folded his arms. “But they usually call for some pretty specific procedures.”
Giles squinted at the small mirror, trying to read the rest of the spell. His expression soured. “Always a catch, isn’t there? Damn.”
Jenny looked at him impatiently. “Anytime, Rupert.”
“Angel is correct,” he admitted when he finally looked up from the words. “This spell will indeed send them all back to their graves, but of course the words must be read directly from here to do so. It also refers to something called the ‘Opal of Unlife,’ and crushing it, no doubt immediately following the recitation of this spell. Oh, and a small detail — it appears that this must all be done on the same day he initially came back to life.”
“Fine,” Angel said. “Then we do it tonight. All we need to zap army-guy back to the Big Beyond is to find this opal thing and smash it right after we read the spell. So where is it?”
Giles gave Jenny a knowing look, then turned back to Angel. “I’m afraid that the esteemed General Samson Murray . . . is wearing it.”
“You want to me to do what?”
“Carry this,” Jenny said and handed Angel the smaller replica of the Sunnydale school flag that she’d retrieved from the gymnasium. “You’ll look like ‘Commander’ Giles’s second-in-command and announce his arrival. It will make everything more convincing.”
Angel started to laugh, then tried to disguise it by coughing instead. “Sorry,” he managed. “Just, uh, clearing my throat.” He pressed his lips together momentarily, then found control. Commander Giles? “What, uh, what do I say?”
“Being the courageous man he is,” Jenny said, “the Deputy Mayor has no doubt gone into hiding. Rupert pointed out that General Murray died still believing World War II was in full force, so there’ll be no one to contradict you if you reinforce the idea that as a representative of the town —”
“That would be you, Commander,” Angel put in. He smirked.
“— Giles intends to discuss the terms of Sunnydale’s surrender,” Jenny finished.
Giles gave Angel a dark look. “Laugh all you want, but you certainly can’t act the part. You seem to lack the requisite heartbeat to represent the living in other than a supporting capacity.”
Angel shrugged. “Touché.”
“We need to get as close as possible,” Jenny said. “Draw him out into the open.”
“The best scenario would be to just snatch the medal and run,” Giles put in. “We’ve got to get that medal and read the spell before midnight. If the clock ticks so much as a single second beyond the hour of twelve, it’s quite likely that the General and all the members of his nasty little army will remain as they are — animated dead — forever.”
“Why can’t we just rush him?” Angel demanded.
“We all know that zombies are nearly indestructible to begin with,” Giles said impatiently. “The General is an expert at killing and survival tactics — this makes him even more challenging to eliminate. We need to get closer to him than it would be possible for someone just appearing out of the blue. This is the only way.”
“Great. I just hope he doesn’t decide to kill the messenger.” He looked at the mini-flagpole dubiously. “Are you sure about this?”
“Don’t worry,” Jenny said sweetly. “The General wants the town, and he’s alrea
dy indicated he’ll talk. A quick stop at the costume shop to meet the General’s expectations and we’re set.” She turned a cheerful grin on Giles. “Just think, Rupert. You get to play the part of a loyal American army man!”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Jenny said. “Of course I’m going with you two.”
“Oh, no,” Giles protested. “You should go back and watch the library —”
“Watch it what?” she demanded. “In case you haven’t noticed, you and Angel really don’t have much of a plan beyond grabbing that opal and taking off. You need all the help you can get.”
“But —”
“She’s right, Giles,” Angel cut in. “If you grab the opal and get caught, I can try to get you out. She’s even more backup.”
Irritated, Giles tried again to button the too-tight collar of this abominable general’s uniform. He finally got it, but he felt like he was being slowly throttled. “I suppose you’ll have to accompany me,” he told the vampire. “As my second-in-command.”
Angel grimaced. “I’m not high on the idea since there are way too many pointy objects surrounding Murray, but I can see the need. After the intro, I’ll back off but try to stay only a few feet away.” He glanced at Jenny. “I think our best bet to work the spell is the roof, don’t you?”
She nodded. “Then I’ll head straight there and wait for you.”
Not much left to argue about, was there? With the last of the geegaws and gilded ropes in place, the librarian finally looked down at himself. “I’ve never felt so conspicuous in my life.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Jenny said. “You look quite handsome.”
Giles started to retort, but something in her tone stopped him. When he glanced at her, he saw her eyes shining with pride. “I . . . well, thank you,” he finally managed.
“No one but you could pull this off, you know.” She eyed him. “Here,” she said then, and stepped quickly in front of him. “Take this, for luck.” Unexpectedly she leaned forward and gave him a healthy kiss on the lips. For a moment, Giles forgot about General Samson and his undead army, Sunnydale, and everyone else.