Resurrecting Ravana (2 page)

“What do you mean?” Buffy asked.

“I mean, I’m a werewolf, right? And I don’t wanna hurt anybody, right? Well . . . it’s kinda like watching Jerry Springer. You know you shouldn’t, but you just can’t help yourself.”

“Perhaps we’re not dealing with werewolves at all,” Giles said.

The next morning, a grisly, but unclear, story topped the local newscasts. Several people had been killed the night before in a biker bar called Hog Heaven on the southern edge of Sunnydale. Although there was no mention of gunfire, everyone assumed, at first, that it had been a shooting. Then more details came out as the day wore on: that no guns had been used . . . that the victims had been eaten.

According to three eyewitnesses, five men had come into the bar around dusk and rudely taken over the pool table, upsetting the regulars. A fight had broken out, which was not uncommon in Hog Heaven.

At that point in the story, the accounts of the eyewitnesses diverged.

One witness thought the strangers used knives, because blood was flying and the regulars involved in the brawl were wailing like animals caught in traps; then that eyewitness fled the bar. The second, who had not been far behind the first in fleeing, insisted that a wild animal of some sort had gotten into the bar and attacked the brawlers.

But the third, a young man who’d had more than a few drinks that evening, claimed that the strangers who’d entered the bar had changed . . . that they’d grown hair and fangs and had stopped punching with fists and had started tearing with claws. He said they’d driven away on five Harley-Davidsons, their thick fur blowing in the wind, and the one in the lead had lifted his head and howled at the night sky as they sped away. It was noted by newscasters that the third eyewitness, who left the bar in hysterics, was arrested a bit later for possession of certain controlled substances, a fact which was used to explain away the young man’s bizarre account.

Authorities thought one of the quintet was Waldo Becker, an ex-con from a small Maryland town who, along with his four friends, was believed to be responsible for murders in three other states.

“Right the first time, traveling hellhounds,” Buffy said to Giles when she and the others gathered in the library to talk about the mystery. “Or devil dogs. Or whatever.”

“Not werewolves,” Giles agreed. “Werewolves either are or aren’t. This . . . this in-between existence is another creature entirely.”

“Traveling hellhounds,” Willow muttered. “It’s like a bad movie.”

Cordelia said, “Oh, like bad movie territory is new to you people?”

“These are hellhounds who are not at all concerned about their condition or the welfare of others,” Giles said. “By all accounts, they seem to enjoy their altered state.”

“We’ve got to stop them,” Oz said.

“And we’re gonna have to do it tonight,” Xander said.

They were silent for a moment, contemplating the body count of another night if these hounds were free.

“This is gonna take some massive patrolling,” Buffy said.

Staring intensely at one of her fingernails, Cordelia said, “Does anybody have an emery board? My nail broke.” She looked up at a wall of impassive faces. “What?”

Willow accessed regional newspapers on the Internet and tracked the movement of Waldo Becker and his companions across the country. It took a couple hours, and there were a number of gaps in their trek, but she found that they focused on seedy bars on the outskirts of small towns, where they slaughtered, dined, and moved on, and sometimes they got takeout and took dinner with them. They were never in any one town for more than one full moon cycle.

They agreed to take Oz’s van out to find Waldo Becker and his friends. Giles presented them with the silver-tipped stakes he’d made for just such an occasion. “We can only assume the silver will work on these . . . hellhounds, for lack of a better name.”

“Um, I don’t know about everybody else,” Xander said, “but I’d be a lot happier with some silver
bullets.
I mean, these guys don’t exactly sound like the up close and personal type, you know?”

“You’ve had no training in the handling of firearms,” Giles said. “And we don’t know what sort of situation we’ll find ourselves in. I can’t have you inadvertently shooting innocent bystanders. Or each other.”

“Giles is right,” Buffy said. “Besides, you guys have gotten good at using stakes. You seemed to do a pretty good job of using them to save the world from evil while I was out of town.” She looked around at them with a grin. “You’ll do fine with them tonight.”

Buffy phoned home to beg off dinner yet again, promising her mom she’d be home tomorrow night for sure. An hour before dusk — much earlier than usual — they locked Oz in the library’s cage, where Giles kept his rare books and manuscripts.

“Sorry for doing this so early,” Willow said, pressing both hands to the steel mesh cage. “But we need to get a head start on these guys.”

“I understand,” Oz said, bobbing his head and stuffing four fingers of each hand into the back pockets of his jeans. “Hey, it’s not like I don’t have anything to read.” He leaned forward and kissed Willow through the bars. “Be careful.”

She nodded and smiled. “See you in the morning.”

Oz wished them luck as they left the library to pursue their quarry.

They took Oz’s van and drove slowly through town, paying special attention to the Fish Tank and Willy’s Alibi Room as they drove by. The Fish Tank was where the first attack had taken place; Willy’s Alibi Room was three blocks away and just as unsavory.

In the hour before sunset, they saw four motorcycles: two parked side by side and two others, each solo.

As the sun slowly disappeared, the streets were very quiet. In Sunnydale, on the Hellmouth — an entryway for the undead and other supernatural creatures — that usually meant something very bad was going on. But on this particular evening, the town was not just quiet and still . . . it actually seemed safe.

“Is this our town?” Xander asked. “Or did we take a wrong turn somewhere?”

“Well, I like it,” Cordelia said. “Hanging out with you guys is never this quiet. It’s kind of refreshing, if you ask me.”

“Which, of course, no one did,” Xander muttered.

“Okay, then,” Cordelia said with a sigh, “even if you don’t ask me, it’s still refreshing.”

Along with the Fish Tank and Willy’s Alibi Room, they were surprised by how many run-down bars existed within the city limits of Sunnydale. They lurked on the edges of town, off the main roads, but they were there — dark, usually small, and inviting to those whose tastes ran to that sort of thing: not much light, bowls of peanuts and pretzels on the bar, condom dispensers in the restrooms, pool tables, dart boards, a jukebox with plenty of country and western weepers on the menu, sports on the television, a pinball or video game or two to take your quarters, and a lot of thick cigarette smoke that violated California law.

On the western edge of town near the beach was the Hidey Hole, next to a rickety-looking pier and with a red-and-white Styrofoam life preserver on the door. To the east lay the Red Rooster, a red barn affair with a huge, weather-beaten rooster standing on the roof. But it wasn’t until they got to the northern end of town that Giles parked the van at the curb.

The Trap was a small bar with a gravel parking lot. There were no lights in the parking lot, and the bar itself was so dark, it would have looked abandoned were it not for the cars parked in the lot around it. It had two small windows with a glowing neon beer sign in each.

There were several cars and pickup trucks parked in the gravel lot . . . along with five Harley-Davidson motorcycles standing side by side beneath one of those two windows, metal gleaming in the glow of the flickering beer sign.

Giles let the van’s engine idle as they all looked at the bar and the motorcycles parked in front of it.

“We aren’t certain those are the ones we’re looking for,” he began quietly. There was a tense edge to his voice and he clutched the steering wheel tightly.

“Five parked in a row outside a bar that looks like some alcoholic’s id?” Buffy asked. “I’d say chances are good these’re the guys.”

“Wait a second,” Willow said. The others turned to her as her eyebrows curled downward over the bridge of her nose and her lips tightened and drew together without touching. She turned to Giles and said, “We’ve forgotten something. We’re all too young to go in there.”

Giles removed his glasses and nodded once, looking out at the bar again. “Yes, you’re quite right.”

“We can’t wait out here,” Xander said. “If our guys are in there, they could start making beer nuts and pretzels of everybody any minute now.”

“Not to worry,” Giles said, killing the engine. “I’m of age.” He replaced his glasses and opened his door.

“You can’t go in there alone.”

“We don’t seem to have much choice, Buffy.”

“Reality check, Giles,” she said. “You Watcher, me Slayer. There are five of those things in there. You could get killed.”

“I’m quite capable of handling myself if need be, Buffy.” He got out, then reached back inside and took two of the silver-tipped stakes from the middle of the seat. He tucked them beneath his belt, then closed his tweed sportscoat over them. “I’ll stay near the door, and should anything happen, I’ll signal you immediately. Once violence breaks out, I seriously doubt anyone will take the time to ask for your IDs. Pay attention and be prepared.” He closed the door, walked around the van, and headed across the parking lot.

“I’ve got a bad feeling in my stomach,” Buffy whispered as her eyes followed her Watcher.

“Let’s hope it’s something you ate,” Xander quipped.

The sound of Giles’s shoes crunching on the gravel faded as he neared the bar. He was less than three feet from the entrance when a guttural scream came from inside the bar.

Buffy’s door was open in an instant and she jumped out of the van with her loaded crossbow in hand.

At the first noise Giles froze. Now as he looked back over his shoulder at the van, the door of the Trap burst outward and broke off its hinges beneath the force of a large, bloody man who shot through the air, a screaming human missile. Giles stumbled backward quickly enough to avoid being hit by the door, but the man slammed into him and both of them rolled over the gravel, coming to a halt about eight feet from where Giles had been standing.

Buffy ran across the gravel parking lot as more screams rose from inside the bar. Horrible, painful screams . . . wet screams. She glanced over her shoulder at the van and saw that no one was following her.

“Come on!” she cried. “What’re you waiting for?”

She ran by Giles and shouted, “You okay?”

“Fine!” he said as he got to his feet, waving her on.

The closer Buffy got to the open doorway of the bar, the louder the screaming inside became. There were crashing sounds inside, as well. And something else, something beneath all the other sounds . . .

Low, animal growls, and sloppy, moist chewing.

Buffy entered the bar with her crossbow held ready to fire . . . and her feet went wild beneath her. She slipped on something wet and slick, and the floor slammed against her back, knocking the breath from her lungs.

She couldn’t move for a moment as bodies rushed by her above, towering over her, shooting in and out of her field of vision with lightning speed. Behind her, she heard Willow cry, “No! No!” and Xander let fly a few choice curses as motorcycle engines roared to life.

Something howled as the engines revved . . . and then began to fade away.

Silence. It was deafening. The bar was completely silent . . . except for a gentle, thick dripping nearby. The coppery odor of blood slowly filled Buffy’s nostrils . . . the blood in which she’d slipped and fallen.

She began to struggle to get to her feet, and hands gripped her arms, helping her up. Giles and Xander were with her, and Willow and Cordelia were standing just outside the door.

“C’mon,” Buffy said urgently, dismissing the carnage inside the bar with a glance. “We’ve gotta follow them. Let’s go!”

The five of them ran to the van and got inside.

“Which way did they go?” Giles asked as he started the engine.

“Straight ahead,” Cordelia said. “I saw them.”

“Do me a favor, Giles?” Buffy asked quietly.

“What’s that?” he asked as he pulled away from the curb.

“Forget you’re British and step on it.”

He did, and the van shot forward. He turned his head and said over his shoulder, “Seatbelts, please? Everyone?”

Everyone in the van remained silent as Giles sped through the night, his foot pushing the accelerator to the floor, breaking the speed limit in a very non-Englishman sort of way.

The road was curvy, but with their windows rolled down, it wasn’t long before they heard the roar of the motorcycles up ahead. The sound of the motorcycles led them west. The area around them became more and more wooded, until they were driving between tall pines and firs, beyond which lay thick woods on both sides of the road.

And then the sound of the motorcycles stopped.

It didn’t stop instantly, it faded. But it faded very quickly . . . and was gone.

Giles let up on the accelerator and the van slowed.

“Where did they go?” Giles asked. “I can’t hear them anymore.”

“Neither can I,” Buffy said, leaning her head out the window.

“Maybe they outran us?” Willow said uncertainly.

“No, no, they didn’t do that,” Buffy said. “It sounded more like they . . . like they . . .” Buffy suddenly spun around and clutched Giles’s shoulder. “Stop the van. Stop it, now.”

Giles slowed down, his mouth moving nervously, but silently.

“No, no, Giles, pull over and stop! Now!”

He did as she said, parking the van on the slanted gravel shoulder.

“What do you have in mind, Buffy?” he asked.

“They went into the woods,” she said, looking out the side window into the dark woods on the western side of the road. “On those motorcycles, they could drive right in there . . . and they did, I know it. Somewhere along this road, maybe a little ways behind us, they went right into the woods.”