by Nancy Holder
Oz ran his fingers through his hair. Dropping his arms to his sides, he said, “Where is she?”
“In surgery. We’ve been waiting to hear from the surgeon,” Joyce said.
He couldn’t speak; he swiveled his head at Buffy, who took a deep breath.
“Her back’s messed up. And there’s pressure on her brain, Oz,” she said carefully. “They’re . . . they’re trying to fix it. The pressure, I mean. It’s like shaken baby syndrome, they said.”
“You were looking for lipstick?” Oz shouted, slamming his fist down on the table. The coffee sloshed over the edge of the cup.
Everyone took a beat to register his uncharacteristic outburst. Everything inside him wanted to break something, throw back his head in a howl and—
I’m not the wolf, he reminded himself. Wolf inside, sure, but just three nights a month. Otherwise, I’m just a regular, normal guy.
Whose girlfriend is having brain surgery.
“I was driving, Oz. Not Buffy. Good Lord, no, not Buffy.” Buffy’s mom laid a hand on his shoulder. “I was paying good attention. The man just appeared out of nowhere.”
Oz wheeled around and strode out of the waiting room. Buffy followed him. He stopped in the hall, looked left, right, and saw a middle-aged woman dressed in a pink smock with a name tag seated behind a semicircular console. She held a phone against her shoulder and typed on a computer keyboard.
“Mr. Tullus, your wife’s in Room 413, maternity,” she said cheerily into the phone. “She’s still in labor. If you hurry, you might make it. But be sure to drive carefully.”
Smiling, she hung up.
Oz leaned into her face and said hoarsely, “Willow Rosenberg.” He looked at Buffy. “Where are her parents?”
“In the chapel.” At Oz’s confused scowl, Buffy added, “With their rabbi.”
“R-O-S-E-N-B-E-R-G. Here she is,” the woman said, typing. Her name tag read GRACE BECK. “Oh,” her cheery smile faded. “I’m afraid she’s still in surgery. It’s estimated to be another two hours, at least.”
Oz broke out in a fresh sweat.
Grace Beck fanned her hand and gestured for him to stay calm. “Just because it’s taking a long time doesn’t mean things are going badly,” she told him. “Spine and head injuries are both tricky. Sometimes it takes a while for the surgeon to make sure all the factors have been taken into account.”
Footsteps clattered up behind Oz. He and Buffy turned, to see a disheveled Xander, shirt unbuttoned and untucked, dashing toward them.
“Guys,” he said.
Oz said nothing.
“Where is she?” Xander asked. “What’s happening?”
“She’s in surgery,” Buffy said. “Brain surgery.” She burst into tears.
“Oh, God.” Xander paled and put his arms around Buffy. He held her for a moment. “How’s your mom?”
Buffy pulled herself back together. “Just a little banged up. The . . . something . . . hit Willow’s side of our car.”
“The something,” Xander said carefully.
Buffy looked up at him and nodded. “Looking like a something’s involved.”
“Kids, there’s not much more I can tell you. The surgeon will come to the waiting room,” the pink lady informed them gently. She smiled at Oz. “Ms. Rosenberg’s doctor is an excellent physician. In fact, Dr. Fleming cared for my husband before he passed away.”
Passed away? As in, died?
Oz reeled. Buffy took his arm and said, “C’mon.”
He didn’t remember going back to the waiting room. Or Buffy getting him a can of Coke from the machine. Or the Rosenbergs showing up. He kind of came to with Mr. Rosenberg lighting into him before the man realized that Joyce Summers, and not his daughter’s musician boyfriend, had been driving the car at the time of the accident.
Mrs. Rosenberg was involved in some surrealistic scene of her own, talking on her cell phone about getting some people to handle her classes for the rest of the day. What was so bizarre was the fact that she seemed more uptight about finding substitute lecturers than that her daughter might be dying on an operating table.
She never does have time for Willow, Oz thought bitterly, thinking back to so many times Willow had hoped that one of her many achievements would elicit some response—any response—from her mother.
Xander paced up and down, never sitting. It wasn’t so very long ago that Xander had moved in on Will, when Spike had imprisoned them both in the Factory.
Guy could have had her any time he wanted, until she finally got tired of waiting. Then he decided he couldn’t live without her.
And I’m being petty. Cuz I’m scared.
“And of course, Cordelia hasn’t seen fit to show,” Xander snapped. He gestured to the clock. It was almost noon. “I suppose she’s got cheerleading practice or a bikini wax or something far more important than Willow.”
“Hi, Cordelia,” Buffy said loudly.
Oz turned. Cordelia was standing at the entrance to the waiting room with her mother, who was a beautiful, older version of her daughter. Cordelia looked pale and wan, and she was pressing her fingers into the crook of her elbow.
“Hi, Buffy,” Cordelia said pointedly. “Oz.” Ignoring Xander, she walked into the room. “How’s she doing?”
“We don’t know,” Buffy replied.
Joyce added, “She’s having an operation. It’s taking a long time. It’s brain surgery.”
Cordelia sighed. “Brains. They’re so . . . whatever.” She turned to her mother. “Thanks. I’ll call you.”
“Sure, honey.” Her mother air-kissed her, turned, and left.
Cordelia walked into the room. “Hi, Mr. Rosenberg. Mrs. Rosenberg.”
“Hi, Carmela,” Mrs. Rosenberg said to Cordelia. She was not so good with the names; she usually called Buffy “Bunny.”
Willow’s mother put her phone back to her ear. “It’s me again, LaTonah,” she said. “The sub will need an overhead projector. They should have one in the lecture hall but just in case, would you check it for me? Thanks.” She disconnected and looked at her husband. “That’s the last time I ever agree to do a Saturday lecture.”
Xander grimly watched as Cordelia sat down and fished through the magazines. “Golf?” she said with disgust.
“Yeah. Some old dude swiped all their copies of Vogue,” Xander snapped. “I’m sure if they’d realized you were planning on gracing us with your presence, they’d have restocked the waiting room.”
“Oh, Xander,” she snapped, rubbing her forehead. “Just shut up.” To Oz, she said, “How long has she been in there?”
“Oh, only half the day,” Xander cut in, before Oz had a chance to answer. He gestured to her. “Giving you ample time for grooming prior to your grand entrance. And may I say, you’re a little light on the blush? Your look’s just a tad bit too pale.”
“For your information, I’ve been in the hospital lab for the last forty-five minutes,” Cordelia said icily.
“Got sent to the wrong place, huh?” Xander flung at her. “Or did they have a better class of anxious friends and relatives?”
“I was in there giving blood. In Willow’s name. In case she has to have a transfusion.” Cordelia glared at him.
Xander was obviously stunned. He opened and closed his mouth like a fish. Blinked. Then he said, “Oh. That was a good idea.”
Cordelia scanned the group. “Am I the only one who thought of it?”
Cordelia pursed her lips into a thin line. Then she picked up another slick golf magazine and flipped it open. She lowered her head as if she were reading every single word.
Buffy came over to her. “That was really nice of you,” she said sincerely.
Cordelia shifted. “Do you mind? You’re standing in my light. I’m reading.”
“I know,” Buffy murmured, moving away. She said to her mom, “I’m going to the bathroom.” Joyce nodded as if she barely heard her.
Buffy walked to the restroom and splashed water on her fa
ce. First Natalie, now Willow.
But this is not about me. These are people I love, but no one is deliberately taking them from me.
She caught her breath and looked at her reflection. So not a pretty sight. One minute you’re there, and the next . . .
The next you’re dead, or a vampire.
She turned off the tap just as the door slammed open and a nurse poked her head in.
She yelled at Buffy, “Do you work here?”
Buffy shook her head.
“Damn it.” The woman looked grim. “We have tons of incoming. Burns from the fires. And now a damn tidal wave.”
Brushing back her hair with one hand, the woman went back into the hall, leaving Buffy to puzzle out her words.
Tidal wave? In Sunnydale?
Then the air filled with the sound of sirens. They rose and fell, screaming and wailing, like falling bombs or airplanes. Buffy ran into the hall just as her mother and Xander ran out of the waiting room, and the trio headed for the foyer.
The pink lady was half-standing, punching buttons, asking people to hold; with her other hand, she was scribbling something on a notepad.
“What’s going on?” Buffy asked; and as often happened, the air of authority in her voice got the woman to tell her.
“It’s—it’s just unreal,” Grace Beck told her. “There’s been a tidal wave on Sunnydale Beach. Drowning victims. People hit with debris. And the fire’s gotten worse.”
Buffy wheeled around and headed down the corridor to the woman’s right, which led to the emergency room. Buffy knew the floor plan of Sunnydale Medical. She figured she’d spent more time there than anywhere else, except for the library at school, on account of it being Slayer Central. The medical center was usually Aftermath Central.
“Miss, get out of the way,” shouted a voice as she rounded a corner.
There was a parade of gurneys headed her way, personnel grouped around them, wheeling along IV’s and crash carts. The wheels clattered and squealed as the doctors and nurses raced the wounded and injured along. Every single person’s scrubs were covered with blood, and an undercurrent of groaning filled in the bottom-most layer of sound.
“What happened? What’s going on?” Buffy demanded, but this time, no one answered her. She tried to flatten herself out of the way, realized the futility of that, and ran back to the juncture of hallways. Gurney after gurney flew past her. An old lady was writhing; Buffy covered her mouth as a burned man lay inert. A man cried out, “Kipper! Kipper!” and another man shouted, “My son! Find my son!”
Then a woman of about thirty-five glanced over at Buffy; her face bruised and cut. She said, “It was a mummy. In the fog.”
“It was wrapped in bandages?” Buffy asked. “All wrapped up like, um, frozen fish, only not in paper?”
The woman groaned and nodded.
“Miss, are you family?” a man in teal scrubs asked as he trotted up beside the woman’s gurney.
Buffy nodded. “Yes.” She looked at the nurse. “What’s wrong with her?”
“Deep gash to the back of her right leg,” the nurse said. “Shock. Do you want to give blood? She’s had two units already.”
“This mummy . . .” Buffy said to the woman, but she had fallen unconscious.
Just then, a steel-haired woman in a white lab coat ran up to the gurney and said, “Okay, nurse, what’ve we got?”
They moved into medical-speak and Buffy moved off. She jogged down to another gurney, this one a girl she recognized from math class. The left side of her face was bandaged and her left arm was in a sling.
“Did you see a mummy?” Buffy asked without preamble.
“What?” the girl asked. “Who are you?”
“Miss?” the man in the teal scrubs called to Buffy. “Let us do our job here?”
“Okay, okay,” Buffy murmured, backing off.
She hurried back to the foyer, where her mother and Xander were waiting.
“It’s a zoo,” she reported. “People talking about mummies.” Her mom was stricken. “I’m thinking your car accident guy.”
“Oh, yay,” Xander groused. “Time for another thrilling episode of as the world turns wacky.”
As they talked, the lobby swarmed with new arrivals, some in wheelchairs, others limping with the assistance of whoever brought them in. Sound bounced off the walls: babies shrieking, tears and shouts; people yelling for help, rudely insisting on it the way some people do when they’re frightened to death. The hysteria level was rising to fever pitch, and a few of the injured were shutting down, staggering in a daze, or slipping off to a corner just to sit.
The air was thick with the mingled scents of sweat, blood and dirt. The coffee cart beside the entrance wafted mocha java and fresh pastries; Buffy caught heavy perfumes. A man in a cowboy hat pushed past her; he was way heavy on the Old Spice.
“My downstairs is completely flooded,” an elderly woman said to Joyce. She had on a brassy red wig and way too much nonmatching orange lipstick, and her raincoat was sopping wet. “I have three thousand dollars in inventory, covered with mud.” She touched Joyce’s cheek appraisingly. “You should call me sometime for a complimentary facial.”
Beyond the double glass doors and large windows, cars were stacked like jets waiting to taxi out of Los Angeles International Airport. Red and blue emergency lights flashed; sirens blatted and blared.
“This isn’t looking right,” Buffy said. “Even by Sunnydale standards, this is way more bad karma than we should be having on a Saturday.”
“And I second that duh.” Xander was not being sarcastic, only observant. He said to Buffy, “I’m thinking Giles.”
“Me, too.” Buffy hesitated and looked upward. Somewhere above them on another floor, Willow was in surgery, or not, and Buffy wished that X-ray vision had come with the Slayer package. No such luck.
“Willow’s in good hands,” Joyce said, touching Buffy’s shoulder. “There’s nothing you can do for her here, honey.”
“Okay.” Buffy looked unhappy. “It’s just . . .” Natalie died. That was bad. But if Willow died, I couldn’t handle it. And that won’t keep it from happening. The universe really doesn’t care how much pain any of us can stand.
“I’ll call you at Mr. Giles’s place the minute we have news,” Joyce promised her.
Still Buffy hesitated. Xander said, “I’ve got wheels today, Buffy. I’ll drive you over.”
“I’ll call him,” Buffy decided finally. “I’ll ask him if he knows what’s the what and if he says I have to go see him, I will.”
Joyce looked as if she were about to say something. Then she pursed her lips and nodded.
Buffy found a bank of pay phones. Standing beside a man with tears rolling down his cheeks as he spoke in Spanish into a receiver, Buffy put in some change in the next phone over and dialed Giles’s condo.
“Buffy. Good,” he said, as if they’d been in the middle of a conversation. “I’ve been reading some astrology texts and I believe that we’re about to begin a phase called ‘the Illumination.’ I want you to—”
“Who’s India?” she cut in. “Not like the country, but In-dee-ah. Because Willow dreamed about her, and everything’s falling to pieces around here.”
There was a pause on the other end of the line. Her heart skipped a beat. Or three.
He knows.
He knows who she is.
“She dreamed about her?” Giles asked.
“And she’s in the hospital now, with a hurt back. Also, a bad brain.”
“What?”
“Willow. In the hospital. There was a terrible accident. And a lot of people are having them, too.” She was speaking too fast, but she couldn’t slow down. “My mom said she saw someone, like a mummy, and it was like my dream, but also, other people are seeing it. Willow stayed over, and when she woke up, she said, ‘India.’ Which is different from what I dreamed, but that’s the only part that was different.” She paused. “Except for Matthew Broderick.”
&n
bsp; “You’re certain Willow said ‘India’ when she woke up?” Giles asked carefully.
Buffy swallowed. “Also, ‘come forth.’ That wigs you why?”
“Buffy, come to my home. This is important. I can’t tell you about it over the phone.”
“But . . .” She glanced over her shoulder. Her mother saw her and waved.
“Buffy. Do this. We clearly have a lot to discuss. In fact, gather the group. We need to have a meeting.”
Buffy sighed. Giles was her Watcher. Not that that meant she did everything he told her to do. But he did hold a little more sway than, say, a teacher assigning homework.
Or a pink lady telling her it would be hours before they heard anything about Willow’s condition.
“Okay, Giles. On our way,” she said, then quickly added, “I haven’t seen Faith yet today.”
“She’s been to see me already. And what she had to tell me makes me even more concerned about the situation as you’ve described it.”
Xander walked up to her. She looked at him grimly and said, “Wheels are good. We also need Cordelia and Oz.”
“Then avengers, assemble.” Xander nodded. “We live to ride.”
Chapter Four
As they ran hand in hand, Willow looked around at the gray, and then at Lucy, and said, “No offense, but I was kind of hoping I wouldn’t be coming back here.”
“Willow, listen,” Lucy said, speaking in a rush as she pulled Willow along. So far, they had outdistanced the mummy guy, but Lucy didn’t want to take any chances, and Willow was all for no-chance-taking. “I’m going to take you to see India.”
“India?” Willow asked anxiously. “That’s good, with the breaking free. And we’re going to see her cuz she’s . . . who?”
Lucy cocked her head, a fairly impressive feat when one is barreling along in the land of the dead. “Buffy’s never told you?”
“Told me . . . ?” Willow was not too happy with the direction of the conversation. She had had enough surprises. Dying, for one. Big on the surprise list. “Not with the telling about India, no.”
“Oh. I see. Perhaps it was too painful for her. Or she was afraid to upset you.” Lucy stopped running and faced the way they had come. “I think it’s gone. Maybe it left the Ghost Roads.”