No Fate: The Collected Data Files

by Elgin

A collection of key points from the 'No Fate' series.

10. Chapter 10

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No Fate: The Collected Data Files

Chapter Ten – Free Spirits Part Eight

Monday 2nd June 1997

Town Hall, Springton, Arizona

Holed up on a balcony overlooking the town hall's spacious and airy main foyer, Deputy Gina Buccelli sat on the floor, wearing her now-rumpled uniform, her back against the rail. Outside the building, the shuffling zombies continued their remorseless never-ending droning chorus of death-rattle moans as they pounded slowly and steadily against the barricaded main doors.

An attractive thirty-year-old woman of average height, Gina was slender with an athletic physique that paid tribute to her daily five-mile jog under a baking hot sun. Her eyes and chin-length hair were raven black, matching each other perfectly.

Gina held an Ithaca riot gun in her hands, the stock resting on the floor, her hands holding the barrel equidistant between her parted knees. A .38 Smith and Wesson revolver was holstered on her hip. Her uniform's broad-brimmed 'Smokey Bear' hat sat incongruously atop the balcony rail, and she wearily rested her forehead against the cold steel of the riot gun's barrel, her eyes gently closed, barely able to stay awake.

"Remind me again: what's our ammo situation?" she quietly asked the tall and gangly bespectacled young man sitting beside her.

'Don't know why I'm bothering to ask…' she silently mused. 'Not like we'll have magically got more ammo since he last checked… Still, a girl can always hope… and at least it keeps us both awake…'

As he finished rustling through the canvas satchel slung over his shoulder and clicked off his torch, Theodore 'Theo' Ward looked back up at Gina, reflexively adjusting his glasses as he did so, and blinked owlishly as he fought to stay awake. "Um, there's another eight shells left for the riot gun, a-and five rounds for your pistol," he informed her. "A-and, of course, um, th-there's the ammunition y-you've already got loaded: that gives us thirteen shells a-and eleven rounds total."

Gina slowly blew out a deep breath. "Thanks."

Several seconds ticked past, the silence only broken by the zombies' unrelenting moans.

"What time is it?"

Theo turned his torch on again and glanced at his watch. "Three-seventeen a.m.."

"Right."

Theo stared solemnly at Gina. "They're gonna get in eventually… aren't they?" he asked at last. "Like last time, in the post office?"

Gina sighed heavily. "Yeah. Only now, unlike in the post office, we've got nowhere else left to run."

Theo nodded. "Okay."

"And, of course, there's the little problem of how even if I somehow take out one zombie with every single shell and bullet we've got, there's still gonna be some left," Gina continued in a resigned tone of voice. "And, quite frankly, I'm nowhere near that good a shot."

"Okay."

"'Okay'? 'Okay'?" Gina repeated, lifting her head away from the riot gun's barrel to stare incredulously at Springton's only other currently living resident. "What's wrong with you? I just told you we can't shoot all those things even in the best-case scenario, which means that the odds are we're gonna die here, and all you can say is 'okay'?"

Theo shrugged. "Would it help if I panicked?"

Gina blinked as she considered the question. "Well… no, I guess not," she conceded.

"Then the way I figure it, why bother?" Theo asked. "Besides, I'm too tired to panic."

Gina let out a short and low laugh. "Jeez Louise, Theo, you're a regular class act, you know that?"

Theo gave a small self-deprecating smile and shrugged tiredly. "Ehhhn… to quote a very wise man, 'I yam what I yam'."

Gina chuckled at that. "Popeye? Okay, well, whatever works…" She sighed again. "You know, after my divorce, I moved out here 'cause I thought Springton would be nice and safe and quiet," Gina said bitterly. "I mean, it's a pretty little small town in the middle of nowhere with plenty of space where everyone knows each other – nothing remotely like New York, you know?"

Theo shrugged. "I guess. I mean, my parents only moved here a couple months back for their retirement – I only arrived here a day before, uh… it happened," he trailed off, gesturing vaguely outside, "on break from college, to see how they were settling in."

Gina winced sympathetically. "Some homecoming, huh?"

"Yeah…" Now it was Theo's turn to sigh. "Sooo… you mind if I ask you a kinda personal question?"

"Sure. Anything to stay awake."

"Have you… y'know… got anyone else, outside? Like, family, or friends, old friends…?"

Gina shook her head. "Nope… well, 'cept for a few of my cousins, back in the Big Apple, along with my no-good cheating ex. And Mom, down in Miami."

"Really? Wow, she must have a great time, with all those beaches. I mean, I've never been there, but I've seen it in pictures and movies, a-and it looks nice…"

"Nuh-uh. She's in a home. Just spends all day staring into space. They've tried their best to help her, but no dice. Don't think she's gonna recover from that."

"Oh," Theo said in a small voice. "Sorry."

"Hey, don't worry about it: it's not your fault," Gina assured him. "My family have – well, had now, I guess – a long history of being involved with the Mob; not very successfully, either. Gramps and Dad and my big brothers were all enforcers; by the time I graduated high school, they were also all dead, and Mom kinda lost it. Talk about living freaking stereotypes, huh?"

Theo looked embarrassed: noticing this, Gina gave him a gentle nudge with her elbow. "Like I said, don't worry about it," she assured him. "What about you – you got anyone out there?"

"Umm… I've got a couple friends from college, but no one really beyond them. Mom and Dad were only children, I'm an only child, my grandparents died when I was little…"

"No girlfriend?"

Theo snorted, amused. "Are you kidding? I've never been on a single date in my life: I'm just not the kinda guy that girls like. Girls don't like geeks like me."

"Hey, I'm a girl and I like you," Gina told him casually.

Theo did a speedy double-take. "Huh? R-Really?" he squeaked out in surprise.

"Well, yeah – you're a nice guy, you stay calm in a crisis, you got a pretty good sense of humour, you're getting really good at reloading for me on the run while I shoot, you're smart, you think fast on your feet, you might not be a male supermodel but you're hardly all that bad-looking…" Gina listed off. "Christ, Theo, if Al – that's my ex – had been here instead of you, the rat bastard would've left me to fight those things off and ditched me long before now; you came back for me and rescued my ass back in the post office even when I specifically told you to go save yourself."

Theo essayed a nervous, confused smile. "Uh, th-thanks!"

Gina shrugged. "Hey, you earned every word of that."

"I mean… wow," Theo said softly. "So… errr… d-do you mean to say… if we weren't almost certainly gonna get torn to pieces and eaten by ravenous zombies sometime in the next twenty-four hours, you'd… um… g-go on a date with me, o-or something?"

"Oh, I was thinking of a little more than that…" Gina said with a mischievous smirk, then leaned over to position her lips close to Theo's ear, and began to whisper her reply.

As she whispered, by various stages Theo's eyes widened, his jaw dropped, his cheeks turned bright red, and he became very uncomfortably aware of his trousers suddenly becoming extremely tight and uncomfortable. As Gina finally finished and leaned back again, grinning like a she-demon, Theo turned dazedly to face her.

"Hell with this," said Theo. "We're gonna live!"

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Sunnydale Memorial Hospital, Sunnydale, CA

Gibbs slowly climbed the six flights up the emergency staircase to the roof, and wearily pushed open the heavy metal door at the top.

The rooftop he emerged onto was flat, covered with tar and gravel, spotted here and there with radio antennae and a few air-conditioning condensers. Taking a deep lungful of the relatively fresh air as he crossed to the edge of the roof, he stretched and yawned mightily, relishing the feel of the gentle morning breeze on his face.

"Hey, Gunny."

Gibbs glanced over to see Faith sitting on the parapet a dozen yards or so to his left, her legs dangling over the edge, Xander silently standing sentinel-like a few paces behind her, a brand new box of long-stem roses tucked under his arm. She seemed relaxed, and the strong scent of her vanilla soap and shampoo was carried to his nostrils as the breeze changed direction.

"Hey," Gibbs said simply, strolling over to the Slayer; Xander's head rotated smoothly, gaze riveted on him all the way. Trying to ignore the Terminator's unwavering scrutiny, Gibbs sat down beside Faith, letting his legs hang over the side of the parapet.

"Whatcha doin' up here?" Gibbs asked.

Faith shrugged. "I just… I had this feeling, y'know? Like, I really need t' see the sun come up, after everything we just went through… the world nearly ending an' all."

Gibbs quirked a small smile. "Yeah… me too," he agreed. "You feeling better?"

"Five by five," said Faith. "I hadda spend damn near two hours with the shower on full blast t' get alla the crap from that demon offa me, but it did the trick awright, an' I'm feelin' a lot more human now. Tee had t' break out the thermite t' dispose of my clothes, though – they were waaay beyond salvaging. Still, least my gun's all cleaned up an' back in working order; same with the stake launchers. How 'bout you?"

"Ah, all I needed was a change of clothes," Gibbs replied. "I didn't get covered in blood the way you did."

"Cool. So, how's it goin' with Mulgrew?" Faith asked.

"Docs're checkin' her over right now," said Gibbs. "Should be done in a half-hour."

Faith nodded. "Good. She okay? Least, so far?"

"Yeah, she seems to be."

"Got her head back on straight an' shit?"

"Yeah, she's completely coherent now. Seems she overheard some of the nurses use the phrase 'gang members on PCP'; now she's insisting that that's who her abductors were." Gibbs paused, wincing ever-so-slightly in a manner a human would have missed in the poor lighting.

Slayers, apparently, were rather better at spotting subtle things like that than were humans. "What is it?" Faith asked, staring directly at him.

"She, ah… Mulgrew insists it was just me and DiNozzo who rescued her," Gibbs admitted.

Faith snorted, sounding amused, as she turned back to gaze out at Sunnydale's skyline. "Figures. An' that's gonna be the official line, right?"

"If it's any consolation, I kinda know how you feel. We – NCIS, I mean – usually get ignored while the Bureau – the FBI – get all the credit in press coverage of our bigger cases," said Gibbs. "Even cases the Bureau wasn't involved in."

Faith shook her head. "Ah, don't worry 'bout it," she assured him. "I ain't that big a glory hound. 'Sides, with those NID guys you mentioned after Tee an' me? I'm thinkin' we're better flyin' right down below the radar, y'know?"

Gibbs nodded. "Probably for the best," he agreed.

"What exactly is the big deal with those guys, anyway?" Faith continued. "I ain't too clear on the details. Heck, I'd never even heard of them until you mentioned them."

"Do you know much about the Red Scare, back in the 1950s?" Gibbs asked. "Specifically the House of Un-American Activities, and Joe McCarthy, and the witch hunts."

Faith grimaced. "Yeah, Gramps told me 'bout alla that, when I was little an' still livin' with him – back 'fore Ma got released early on parole. Those stories always scared the crap outta me."

"Well, something you won't find in the average school's history books is that McCarthy had a pal in the Senate, Senator Douglas Kinsey: he took care to stay well out of the limelight," said Gibbs. "Long story made short, Kinsey thought McCarthy had the right general idea but was thinking way too small, and that agencies like the FBI were using kid gloves too much. So, Kinsey pulled some strings, and wound up establishing a brand new agency, one that was much more to his liking."

"The NID," Faith guessed.

"Right. They were charged with national oversight, and given wide-ranging powers – powers that're actually outright unconstitutional by any stretch of the imagination. Now, after Doug Kinsey retired from public office in the Sixties, those powers got reduced a bit, but they're still pretty damned scary.

"Over the last forty years, some presidents – from both parties – haven't liked the NID all that much and tried to shut the bastards down; trouble is, they've got a lot of political pull in D.C., enough that finishing them off for good needed a lot more power than those presidents possessed. Other presidents have loved 'em; hell, there's a couple who probably wouldn't have gotten elected in the first place without the NID greasing a few wheels along the way.

"You know all those rumours about the CIA? Or other federal agencies? Illegal 'phone tappings, assassinations, abductions, falsification of evidence, death squads, conspiracies, stuff like that? Well, nine times out of ten, it's not the CIA or DEA or FBI that're really responsible for that stuff…"

"…It's the NID," Faith finished. "Jeez, they're that bad?"

"Yeah," Gibbs sighed. "They're that bad. Don't get me wrong: all the other agencies have made their fair share of mistakes – including NCIS, if I'm honest – but the NID…"

"…They're what gives all feds an' government spooks a real bad name, huh?"

"That's the size of it."

Faith huffed out a deep breath. "Bottom line this fer me, Gunny: how much trouble could these guys realistically make fer me an' Tee?" she asked.

Gibbs shrugged. "I guess it depends on whether they know about the supernatural or not," he said. "If they don't, if they're flying completely blind and think you're both one hundred percent human and just very lucky, very skilled, or both… well, they'll still be a problem, a big problem, but after seeing you two in action? I'm pretty sure you could handle them."

"But if they do know about the supernatural, an' about Slayers, then we're in real deep shit, right?" said Faith. "'Cause they'll just pull out the big guns from Day One."

"Yeah. The NID's used plenty of military assets in the past: if they figure out that Xander's a Terminator, don't be surprised if they come after you two with tanks and gunships. Hell, if they decide they just want you dead, they might decide to sit back and drop Tomahawk cruise missiles on your position: Xander might survive that—"

"—But there's no way in hell that I could," Faith interrupted.

"You got it."

"Crap. Uh… if the NID know 'bout the supernatural, is there any chance they might wanna… I dunno… go all Frankenstein on our asses? Try t' work out what makes Terminators an' Slayers tick, stuff like that?"

"I honestly don't know, Faith," Gibbs said quietly. "I wouldn't put it past them, but… I just don't know, not for certain." Giving a heavy sigh, he turned to face her. "At the end of the day? The best advice I can give you is to watch your back, and be ready to run."

Faith grinned at that. "I been doin' that since I was five years old, Gunny. But… still: thanks, man."

"You take care of yourselves," said Gibbs.

Faith nodded. "You too. You're one heckuva lawman, Gunny – an' you an' Junior did real good over the last couple nights. This stuff might be brand new t' you both, but you handled the whole thing real well."

Gibbs snorted. "Thanks, but don't sell yourself short," he told her. "You're the one who willingly went into that demon's gullet to save ten thousand people – including Mulgrew, DiNozzo and me, and your new friends. You did most of the heavy lifting tonight."

"Heh… guess it's like the song goes: 'We can be he-roes… Just fer one day'," Faith said with a smirk.

Gibbs nodded. "I guess it is," he agreed.

"By the way…" Gibbs paused, fished out a card from his windbreaker, and handed it to the Slayer. "…if you ever need help – with the NID, or the local cops, or the next apocalypse, or whatever – you call me, okay?"

"Thanks, Gunny." Faith's grin widened as she turned to him, tapping the card against her fingertips before carefully tucking it inside her jacket's inner pocket. "I might just take you up on that someday, y'know."

Gibbs gave her a lopsided grin in return. "I'll be ready."

"Oh, hey, nearly forgot…" Faith drew out a folded sheet of paper, torn from a small notebook, and handed it to him. "Same goes fer you guys – you ever need some 'specialist' help, fake IDs, a getaway car or whatever, call us up."

"Thanks – I might just take you up on that someday," Gibbs wryly told her, slipping the note into his wallet.

"Heh. You do that," Faith told him, still grinning as she pulled a small package out of her jacket's right-hand pocket. "Got a li'l souvenir for ya – t' remember good ol' Sunnyhell by," she finished jokingly, holding the package out to him.

Gibbs blinked, surprised. "Thanks," he said gruffly, accepting the package – a slim box wrapped in brown paper and tied up with string. Nimbly untying the knots, he pulled the string and paper away, then removed the box's lid.

"Junior mentioned your Rule Number 9," Faith explained. "Seemed appropriate."

Pulling the compact slim-bladed dagger out of the box, Gibbs slid it free from its tough brown leather sheath. The short blade glittered brightly in the lights of the town below.

"That asshole Juros had it on him," Faith continued. "Torch an' the A-Man took a look at it t' check fer curses an' shit: it's clean, though, nothin' t' worry about. 'S got an enchantment on it t' make sure it always stays sharp, an' it does a li'l more damage than it would if it was just normal steel. Then they started talkin' 'bout Dungeons an' Dragons – said it was a 'Plus-One' weapon, whatever that means."

Gibbs grinned, adjusting his fingers around the dagger's hilt as he got a good feel for the weapon. "Excellent balance… nice and light… it's perfect," he said, sheathing the dagger and turning to Faith. "Thank you."

"Hey, you're welcome – we figured you an' Junior shouldn't leave empty-handed," said Faith. "He's got a rock: last time I saw him, he was still playing with it."

Gibbs looked at her nonplussed. "With a rock?" he asked.

"Yeah – a rock with a mojo on it," Faith said, her eyes glinting with amusement. "The guys whipped it up for him: when ya squeeze it, it glows bright as a flashlight; ya squeeze it again, an' it stops glowing."

Gibbs slowly shook his head as he strapped the sheathed dagger to his belt. "Sorry we didn't get you guys anything."

"Ah, it's cool: you guys're the guests, here," Faith told him. "Besides, been a real pleasure working with ya, Agent Gibbs."

Gibbs nodded. "Likewise… Faith, the Vampire Slayer."

As they looked on, sitting side by side, thin blood-red streaks of light gradually unrolled the darkness across the town, one little bit at a time. The light streamed over the three watchers on the rooftop like a silent gale, dazzling in intensity. Gibbs raised his forearm to cover his eyes as the great red ball turned shadows to fire across the slumbering town.

Gold light slammed into the rooftops, making every one a blinding, silent blazing inferno. It rolled ever onward, gushing into the streets and thundering up the gentle slopes of the little hills, unstoppable and majestic.

"We did that," Gibbs breathed, enraptured, as he lowered his arm.

"Yes we did, Gunny," Faith quietly replied, staring at the rising sun. "We certainly did."

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Portland, Oregon

The blocks of flats were all over sixty years old, having been built along with many others as part of F.D.R.'s 'New Deal'. Now a clump of run-down crumbling buildings in a run-down crumbling neighbourhood, they were long past their prime, dark and dismal in the early morning light.

No one visited the area; no one even drove through it or near it if they could possibly avoid doing so. Only those too broke or too desperate to live elsewhere dwelt in the dingy and decaying buildings.

Burned-out vehicles littered the road. Clothes hung on washing lines strung between the buildings, left so long they were filthy again.

And, everywhere you looked, there were flies. Dark, bloated, fat-bodied flies. The very air itself seemed to be alive with their swarms.

Four armed men crashed through an empty doorway and stormed into the lobby of one of the tenement blocks. Their boots pounded loudly against the floor of old and cracked tiles, echoing in the high-ceilinged lobby.

Armed with Colt Commando carbines that were older than they were, the stocks jammed tight into their shoulders and their eyes glued to the weapons' sights, the men rapidly advanced through the building and up an emergency staircase. Their weapons held at the ready, they leapfrogged forward with two men always covering while the other two advanced. Bobbing beams of light shone from the Streamlight torches taped under the carbines' barrels, sweeping left and right and up and down as they advanced.

The men wore an unofficial 'uniform' comprised of battered jeans, black t-shirts, tough sturdy work boots, black leather gloves and radio headsets. They were laden with Kevlar vests and bulging multi-pocketed ops waistcoats. All four were in their mid- or late twenties, of varying heights and builds, and anyone glancing at them could immediately tell they kept themselves in excellent physical health.

The tallest and brawniest man carried an M79 grenade launcher on a sling across his back: the chunky weapon looked for all the world like a shotgun with a short and fat stubby barrel. The other three men variously carried a sledgehammer, an industrial pair of bolt cutters, and a 'Harvey Wall-banger' explosive frame charge as their own 'party favours'.

They left the staircase upon reaching the fourth floor, as a tangy stench of cooked blood and ozone filled their nostrils, drowning out even the stink of the swarms of flies buzzing around them. The swarms were bigger and denser now.

The four men silently advanced along the corridor beyond, along the walls of which a series of markings had been crudely and sloppily daubed in dark paint. They couldn't bring their eyes to properly focus on the lettering, which seemed to shift and distort and dance if they tried to do so, until a growing sense of nausea finally forced them to look away.

Under the disturbing writing, someone had nailed up a series of dolls and other children's toys. The lead man, Thomas Kirklee – better known as 'Scouse' – let his gaze linger on a few of the crucified and mutilated dolls as he passed them by, and felt his gorge rise as he realised something that sent shivers up his spine:

Not all of the dolls were dolls.

Choking down the urge to retch, Scouse forced himself to focus on the job at hand.

The stench grew thicker and more overpowering as they stalked deeper and deeper into the building, turning off down first one corner and then a second. Their only light now came from their torches, and their breathing sounded impossibly loud.

At last, they came to a door that was prodigiously covered in runes, the most complex they'd seen so far. The men formed up around it: Scouse to its left, Isaac 'Newton' Cohen to its right, and the two biggest members of their party – Leonard 'Geordie' Bell and Daffyd 'Dave' Curtis – directly in front of the door.

Catching the eyes of each of his mates in turn, Scouse silently held up three fingers, then two, then one—

Acting as one man, Geordie and Dave lashed out in perfect synchronisation and kicked the door off its hinges, knocking the cheap long-rotten wood flying clean across the room beyond. The four men burst into the room a mere second behind the door, fanning out and bringing their weapons to bear.

In the gloom of the open-plan flat's combination living room-kitchen, several thousand eyes simultaneously blinked at them.

Something immeasurably vast began to coil up out of the darkness, extending the flaccid blue-white mass of its bloated body, ropes of toxic spittle drooling from its fanged mouths. Jellied things quivered in the dark spaces of its translucent skin and the flies billowed around it like a cloak.

Scouse's nose spurted blood and his stomach churned as his torchlight flickered over the demon, coming to rest upon its largest eye of all: easily as wide as a truck's hubcap, it was big and round and bloodshot, the slitted sickly yellow iris focusing on Scouse and staring back in return.

Newton's torchlight came to rest upon two bound and nude human figures beside the demon, a middle-aged man and a girl in her early teens. Unhealthily pale in the glaring beam of torchlight, they appeared skinny and malnourished, and couldn't have eaten for several days.

The ropes constricting the captives' limbs had cut deeply into their flesh. Their mouths were covered with filthy rags; their cheeks bulged and their jaws were painfully distended almost to the point of dislocation by their gags' thick packing that completely swallowed their attempts to scream. Above the gags, large terrified eyes darted this way and that.

Limpid greasy coils lashed out of the darkness to encircle one of the bound captives, embraced him, and then crushed the man so hard and so suddenly that he literally burst like a tomato that had been stomped underfoot.

"SHAKE OUT!" Scouse shouted, and shot the vast inhuman thing through its largest eye. The eyeball exploded in a grisly spray of pus and jelly.

The other three men were quick to respond to the order, opening up on full automatic and hosing the demon down with a will. The bullets – exotic hollow-point/tracer hybrids – expanded on impact to nearly three times their size, splintering into four extending 'petals' whose sharp edges tore large fleshy chunks out of the target even as the white phosphorous element ignited, starting little fires within the demon's skin and innards.

A fireball rocketed out of the far corner of the room and struck Geordie square in the chest. The massive man was blasted off his feet and sent flying back into the corridor: he slammed hard against the wall. Those portions of his waistcoat, vest and shirt that were covering his chest were on fire, and Geordie howled as the magical flames burned through to the flesh of his chest: he dropped his carbine and began beating at the blaze.

"Fools!" a male voice sneered triumphantly from the darkness. "None can stand before a Koraxis demon!All shall kneel before me, for I am the deliverer of the morning star! The champion has been destined before time breathed it first breath!"

Slapping a fresh magazine into his carbine, Newton brought it up and around to the source of the fireball and the voice. His torchlight revealed a skinny and bearded man – dressed in mottled and patched threadbare robes, eyes glittering with insanity – and he fired two shots in quick succession, double-tapping the mage neatly through the head.

Returning his attention to the demonic abomination as the mage's corpse collapsed to the floor, Newton dodged and ducked as its thrashing tentacles lashed out at him, firing short controlled bursts every time he got a clear shot at it.

"All Bravo callsigns, Bravo Seven-Two – we have contact; repeat, have contact! Primary x-ray at our location – RV on Building Gold Five!" Scouse hastily shouted into his radio, then fired off a short burst at the demon. Its tentacles flicked out in his direction; Scouse nimbly danced aside, then leapt over an up-ended dining chair and fired off another, longer burst.

"Scouse! We've got to fall back, mate!" Newton yelled. "The fuckin' Vampbusters ain't doing the bastard job! We need more fuckin' manoeuvring space!"

"Shite!" Scouse cursed, leaping back to avoid the embrace of another tentacle. "Fine: Dave, grab Geordie and put him the fuck out; Newton, you and me cover!"

[—]

Mere seconds later, Dave took a flying leap and landed atop Geordie, the larger man smothering the magical flames with his body and starving them of oxygen.

Rolling off Geordie and onto the corridor's floor, Dave staggered upright and slipped a hand under Geordie's armpit. "Come on, big man!" Dave roared. "We've gotta go!"

"Oh, aye, mun…" Geordie groaned, struggling up and rubbing distractedly with his free hand at the pink fire-scoured flesh on his chest. "Ah'm oop, Ah'm fookin' oop. Shite, this hurts, mun!"

No sooner had they begun lurching off down the corridor than Newton rocketed out of the doorway, facing backwards and blazing away as he collided with the wall. His carbine clicked empty, and he rolled out of the way just in time as Scouse scurried back in a crouch beneath the demon's flailing tentacles.

"Fall back to the stairs! Now!" Scouse shouted as he smacked a full magazine home into his carbine.

"Where's our fuckin' backup!" Newtown called over the now-deafening buzzing of the flies as they fell back. "When do they get here?"

"Not feckin' soon enoff! We've gotta slot it by ourselves, or we're dead feckin' meat!" Scouse replied.

The demon was slowly slithering out into the corridor, distending its hideous body to fit through; Scouse emptied his carbine into it, shredding skin and exploding eyeballs to little apparent effect beyond making the demon pause, blinking repeatedly as if confused.

"Dave!" Scouse snapped urgently. "You an' Geordie, 'old up at the door, man!"

"Right – I 'ope you knows what you're doin', though!" Dave shouted back.

"Get on the feckin' Wombat Gun – soon as youse gets a clear shot at the shitester, nail it with white phos while we cover you!" Scouse ordered.

Dave grinned evilly as he removed his arm from around Geordie's shoulder and unslung the M79. "Sounds llike a pllan!" Dave agreed, snapping open the grenade launcher and slipping a white phosphorous grenade home into the breach.

A split-second later, Newton and Scouse skidded to a halt on either side of the doorway to the staircase. Dave snapped his launcher shut and brought the stock up to his shoulder; beside him, Geordie was lying on his belly, breath rasping painfully as he brought his carbine to bear on the demon and opened fire. Slotting full magazines into place in their own weapons, Scouse and Newton followed suit. The demon had fully emerged into the corridor by now, and filled it completely as it rapidly slithered across the tatty carpet toward them.

"Dave!" Scouse screamed. "Feckin' mallet the fecker already!"

At that moment, Dave pulled the trigger: there was a dull bloop of displaced air as the Wombat Gun fired, and the grenade sailed through the air, narrowly avoiding the demon's flailing tentacles, to land squarely in one of the beast's larger gaping maws.

There was a blinding flash as the chemicals within the grenade ignited and the demon screamed, a drawn-out and truly inhuman high-pitched sound. In their bobbing beams of torchlight and through the demon's translucent skin, the four men could see the grotesque sight of a fountain of burning phosphorous spreading through the demon's belly.

Still the demon screamed, not pausing to draw breath. The flies buzzed ever louder and louder, flocking around the demon until they obscured it completely—

—And then at last, with a damp and corpulent eruption, the Koraxis demon exploded.

Dark red flames, fringed with black, roared up to the ceiling for a second or two before guttering out and dying away.

There was no sign left of the demon and the flies: only a blackened scorch mark stretching down the corridor remained to show where they had been. Scouse realised with great relief that the stink of dark magic had vanished, and swiped at the blood collected on his upper lip.

"Dave?" Newton said quietly.

"Mmm?"

"That was fucking good shooting."

"Oh, you're wellcome," Dave modestly replied, slinging the Wombat Gun across his back and picking up his carbine again. "You gonna be allright, Geordie?"

"Why-aye, man," Geordie groaned. "Just gi' us a minute, a'right? Ah'm bastard chinstrapped from that fookin' fireball."

Feeling drained and listless as the adrenaline wore off and left his system, Scouse keyed his radio. "All callsigns, Bravo Seven-Two – one primary and one secondary x-rays confirmed destroyed," he reported. "One T3 and one Yankee confirmed in Gold Five; out."

One by one, the four men picked themselves up, then wearily walked – or in Geordie's case, staggered drunkenly – back down the corridor.

[—]

"A-Are you guys English?" Sofia Felix stammered a few minutes later, looking up at Dave.

Having been freed from her bonds and had her wounds treated for infection, the teenage girl had been plied with Galaxy bars, which she'd promptly wolfed down; furnished with her rescuers' nicknames; and handed Dave's spare t-shirt, which hung down almost to her knees and was long and baggy enough to look like a dress on her. She and Geordie had then been helped downstairs, and the little party now sat, exhausted, out on the front steps of the tenement block: more men and women – armed and attired identically to Scouse's team – were inside.

"Y-Your accents – th-they're sure not American…" Sofia continued. "So… are you English?"

"How dare you!" Dave boomed, sounding indignant but giving her a comforting smile and a playful wink. "I happen to be Wellsh, I'llll have you know. Now, that llot over there," he continued, jerking his thumb over his shoulder at his three companions, "they're Engllish."

Sofia frowned, looking puzzled. "So… if you're not English, where're you from?"

"Wales."

Sofia brightened up at that. "Oh, right – like Princess Di, yeah?" she enthused. "But isn't that part of England? Wow, it must be so cool to live next to Stonehenge! …Hey… wait… Dave, why're you banging your head against that wall?"

[—]

Sunnydale National Airport, Sunnydale, CA

Beyond the departure lounge's floor-to-ceiling windows, the runways were a riot of activity, with airliners taxiing in from landing or preparing to take off, luggage trains cruising every which way across the tarmac. For an airport in such a small town so early in the morning, the lounge itself was surprisingly busy – so busy that the little knot of two NCIS agents and six Scoobies went almost unnoticed amid the hustle and bustle, although Gibbs and Tony's NCIS windbreakers attracted some mild curiosity from those travellers who passed them by.

Dressed in clean clothes, with their various injuries treated, all of them save Xander showed signs of being greatly fatigued by their recent ordeal. Despite this, they were in a satisfied and exuberant mood, spirits buoyed up by the flush of success.

"I gotta say, you kids have been great, you really have," Tony said with a broad grin.

"Hey, dude, you weren't so bad yourself," replied Warren, grinning back.

Choked up with emotion, Andrew shook Gibbs' hand. "I-It's been an honour, sir," the boy managed to stammer out.

"Likewise," said Gibbs, and gave him a nod and a small but sincere smile, which Andrew shyly returned.

"Thanks for that Dingoes CD – I'll send you an email once I've had a chance to play it," Tony told Oz. "Abbs might like it, too."

Oz nodded. "Cool – thanks, man."

"Mulgrew already heading for D.C., huh, Gunny?" Faith asked.

"Yeah, DiNozzo ran her over to Fort Bank after the hospital finished with her and put her on an Air Force Gulfstream that was making a return trip to the East Coast," Gibbs explained. "I was finishing up at the crime scene—" most of the Scoobies promptly either smirked or abruptly looked carefully poker-faced, "—about then; by the time he got back, we had a few last details to take care of before we were ready to pack up our gear."

"Are you guys gonna be okay with, y'know, y-your bosses?" Jonathan asked.

"Ah, we'll figure something out," Tony assured him. "Right, Boss?"

"Yeah, I think we can pull that off," Gibbs agreed.

"You sure you've gotta go? 'Cause, hey, we could use all the help we can get, and you guys're real pros," Warren asked, sounding hopeful.

Gibbs shrugged helplessly. "Sorry," he said simply. "Still, if anything big comes up again, just call."

"Hey, you guys take care of yourselves, now," said Faith.

"You too," Tony replied, patting Xander on the shoulder. "The ol' Xandernator here'll help out with killing stuff – right, big guy?"

"Affirmative," Xander agreed, completely deadpan.

A disembodied female voice came over the tannoy, rendered barely comprehensible by the distorting echoes from the cavernous lounge.

"Well, that's our flight," said Gibbs. "We've got maybe five minutes before we gotta go…"

Andrew's eyes widened. "Oh! Wait, I can't believe I nearly forgot!" he cried, delving his hand into his jacket pocket and pulling out a small camera. Frantically looking around, he darted over to where a tall and regal-looking bald Jamaican man wearing a smartly-cut grey John Phillips suit and carrying a single briefcase had just emerged from the arrivals lounge nearby.

"E-Excuse me, sir!" Andrew stammered, dashing over to him, holding out the camera. "Uh, c-could you please please please take a picture o-of my friends a-and me before their flight's called? It won't take a second, I promise."

The man considered the request, noting the half-pleading, half-panicky expression on the boy's face, then nodded. "Oh, alright," he agreed.

"Thank you, you're a lifesaver!" Andrew babbled gratefully, leading him back to the group and handing over the camera. "Uh, j-just press here, a-and it'll go," he explained, gently tapping one of the camera's buttons.

"Very well… now, if you could all just move in a little closer…" the man directed them, "…a little closer… good, that should do it." There was a faint bleep, then a small flash of light.

"I really can't thank you enough for this," Andrew gushed, enthusiastically pumping the man's hand.

The man shook his head and smiled as he handed back the camera. "Oh, you're quite welcome, young man," he said, before gingerly extracting his hand from Andrew's grasp and making good his escape.

"I-I'll, uh, I'll make sure you guys get copies of this," Andrew said as he turned to Gibbs and Tony. "Just as, y'know, a little souvenir."

"Yeah, kinda like when Doc Brown and Marty McFly had their picture taken next to the Hill Valley clock when they were in 1885 in Back to the Future Part 3," Jonathan helpfully added.

"Oh, yeah – I love that scene!" said Tony. "Man, that was a great movie…"

[—]

The Jamaican man shook his head slightly, smiling wryly to himself at the teenage boy's antics as he headed for the exit. Various parties waited there, holding up signs with names on; spotting a casually-dressed cab driver holding a sign with 'Dr. S. Zabuto' on it, he headed over.

"I am Zabuto," the Watcher announced.

The driver nodded, and tucked the sign under his arm. "Right this way, sir," he said, before leading the way outside to where his taxi stood waiting.

[—]

Briefcase open on the seat beside him, Zabuto leafed through sheets of notes as the cab wound its way through what passed for Sunnydale's morning rush-hour traffic. As he drew out a fresh sheaf of papers, a small photograph fell out of them and landed in his lap, and he picked it up.

Kendra's smiling face looked back at him from a beautiful sunny day. Her favourite stake, Mr Pointy, was held loosely in her right hand as she crouched on a sunlight green hillside. Casually dressed and covered in sweat though she was, she nevertheless looked every inch the lethal huntress she had been, full of life and visibly brimming with eager energy.

'I took this only a week after she returned from Sunnydale that first time,' Zabuto silently mused, feeling a deep and terrible wound ripping open in his heart once more, his eyes beginning to prickle uncomfortably. 'She'd just thwarted that dark mage, Helgrund…

'She learned so much from Rupert's charge, Slayer Buffy: she came back from that Hellmouth so energised, so much more alive. Ah, Kendra… you were one of the greatest of Slayers… I failed you once, my daughter, but I won't fail you again: this much I swear. Your body will yet rest undisturbed in the City of Slayers, safe with your sister-Slayers until the end of time itself.'

The cab abruptly lurched to a stop. Snapped out of his painful reverie and blinking away the moisture that had just begun to pool in the corners of his eyes, Zabuto looked up and around.

They'd stopped at a crossroads in the warehouse district, halted by a glaring red traffic light. Zabuto frowned: try though he might, he couldn't see anyone around – no other motorists, no pedestrians, nobody.

The cab's driver suddenly whirled around in his seat; Zabuto barely had time to notice the gleaming silver signet ring that the driver had slipped on his finger, to register the flash of matt black polymer as he whisked something out from under his jacket—

The Tarakan assassin pulled the pistol's trigger over and over again as quickly as he could: at barely four feet from his target, he was unable to miss. The suppressed Glock 19 coughed with each discharge, until at last the slide locked back on an empty magazine: ejecting it, the Tarakan slapped in a fresh one, and examined the results of his handiwork.

The back of the cab looked like the inside of a slaughterhouse. Zabuto's blood had splashed everywhere, coating the windows, rear windscreen and seat.

The Watcher himself lay slumped limply where he'd been flung back against the seat, with fifteen bullets in his head and chest; he hadn't had time to cry out. The photograph of Kendra fell free from his lifeless hand, and fluttered slowly to the floor.

Ignoring his blood-spattered appearance, the Tarakan replaced the Glock in his shoulder holster, then climbed out of the cab and walked calmly away. When he was a good thirty yards or so down the street, he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small remote control: extending the aerial, he hit a switch.

The cab exploded in gouts of flames, flinging out debris in all directions.

The photograph of Kendra landed in front of the assassin's feet, ablaze and starting to curl. The dead Slayer continued to smile cheerfully through the flames, until the assassin stepped on the photograph, contemptuously grinding it into the dirt as he continued on his way.

[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]

The Council of Watchers' Headquarters, London

Charles Caulderhale snatched up the receiver before the 'phone could finish its second ring. "Yes?" he snapped, then listened intently for several seconds. "…Right… Good… Yes, the money is waiting in the usual account. Goodbye."

"Zabuto has been taken care of, then?" James Roberts laconically drawled from his seat on the other side of Caulderhale's mahogany desk.

"Not five minutes ago," Caulderhale confirmed.

"Why not have your Tarakan off that Giles boy while he's in town?" John Healy suggested from his seat next to Roberts.

Caulderhale suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. 'God save us from simpleton Irish thugs…' he silently mused, '…if it weren't for Scotsmen like Roberts and myself, this whole damn Council would have collapsed centuries ago. Englishmen like Travers and Edmund Giles are no good, and the Welsh are worse than the Irish… Hell, Terrence over there might have the right ideas, but he's still as big a cretin as his fellow Sassenachs.' "Because, John, young Giles is an embarrassment to the liberals so long as he's alive," he patiently explained aloud. "He's living proof of what happens when one gets too emotionally attached to one's Slayer; and when a Slayer is inadequately and incorrectly trained."

"Indeed," Terrence Harcourt-Smyth agreed from his seat the other side of Healy. "Quite frankly, Slayer Buffy was a disaster; her associates – untrained schoolchildren, for the most part – were often needed to save her life, or played key roles in preventing the end of the world. A proper Slayer should need no help save that which her Watcher provides – and perhaps a Hunter Force team in extreme circumstances."

"Even worse, young Giles permitted Slayer Buffy's… liaison with that Angelus monster," Roberts growled. "No one's going to forget that in a hurry."

"Leaving young Giles alive undermines his father and the other liberals, like Gibson and Parkes," Caulderhale continued. "Zabuto, on the other hand, being one of Travers' strongest supporters, and firmly in the traditionalists' camp… well, his death will help to weaken Travers' position in particular, and the traditionalists' in general by extension."

[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]

Springton, Arizona

With a final crunch! of splintering timber, the makeshift barricade gave way under the pressure of dozens upon dozens of bodies pressing against the city hall's front doors. Clumsily clambering over the wreckage of desks, lengths of two-by-four and the doors themselves, the zombie horde slowly swarmed into the lobby area.

A deafening explosion of sound and smoke filled the lobby. One of the leading zombies slumped to the floor, most of its head blasted clean away.

Leaning over the balcony on the upper floor, Gina pumped the action of her Ithaca riot gun and fired again, the buckshot shell tearing down into another zombie and dropping it. Again and again she pumped and fired, pumped and fired, felling a zombie with every shot, until the Ithaca's hammer slammed down on an empty chamber with a loud click.

"Reload!" Gina shouted, passing the riot gun to Theo behind her. Drawing her revolver from its holster, Gina took aim and began firing. A repetitive metallic click-click-click faintly sounded behind Gina, interrupted every so often by rustling sounds as Theo rummaged in his satchel for fresh shells.

"Trade!" Theo yelled in Gina's ear over the din of gunfire as she emptied her revolver's fifth chamber. Giving a curt nod, she accepted the riot gun and handed over her revolver; taking aim once again, she squeezed the Ithaca's trigger and a zombie promptly collapsed on the floor, only to be trampled scant seconds later by more zombies lurching through the gaping doors. Click-click-click sounded again, as Theo quickly fed fresh rounds into Gina's revolver, while the riot gun thundered over and over again.

"Trade!" Gina eventually shouted, swapping the now-empty riot gun for her revolver once more as the zombies shambled towards the barricade at the foot of the staircase, pressing against it and threatening to burst through. Gina lined the sights up on the slack-jawed face of Mr Poyer, the owner of the local store; blood, bone and brains spattered across the wall as she squeezed the trigger.

A rustle-rustle click-click-click told Gina that Theo was reloading the Ithaca as quickly as he could with their last three 12-gauge shells; she shifted aim, lining up on old Mrs Ellis, a retired schoolteacher, fired; rustle-rustle click-click-click; sweat streaming unchecked down her face by now, Gina aimed again and fired, dropping Her Honour the Mayor Rachel Willard Junior.

"Trade!" Theo shouted. Instinctively, Gina handed him her half-empty revolver and accepted the riot gun without even looking at him, aimed at Father Adams and fired—

In a stunning crescendo, the whole world seemed to erupt with the sound of gunfire, as dozens of single shots were fired in rapid succession and blended together to form a solid wall of sound. Gina saw the zombies twisting and jerking under the savage onslaught from behind; within a matter of seconds, none remained upright in the lobby below.

The firing stopped, and for a moment an unnatural silence fell upon the tableau, the sound of magazines being changed and weapons made ready drifted to Gina and Theo's ears.

"Clear!"

"Clear!"

"Clear!"

"Moving!"

"Go, go, go, go, go!"

A split-second later, nine armed men and women burst into the lobby, their weapons up and snapping around. While they were mostly clad in civilian clothes, the newcomers were uniformly dressed, and carried themselves with a professional military bearing that left Gina unconsciously thinking of them as soldiers.

Each soldier wore jeans, sturdy-looking black boots, black leather gloves with padded knuckles, a t-shirt and a thick leather jacket, over which was strapped a multi-pocketed waistcoat that was stuffed to bursting with ammunition, grenades and other bits and pieces. Each soldier wore a radio headset, a microphone held suspended before his or her lips.

A zombie raised its hand, uttering a low groan and stretching feebly as it tried to reach for one of the new arrivals. The man paused, levelled his carbine – an old-model Colt Commando that looked older than he was, Gina vaguely noted – and calmly squeezed the trigger, a mild crack! echoing through the lobby as the zombie that had been Mr Olsen slumped limply back to the floor.

Gina gaped down at the soldiers as they stormed through the lobby, booted feet pounding against the polished hardwood floor and trampling over dead bodies, pausing every so often to fire a shot or two into the head of any zombie that dared to so much as twitch.

The soldiers smoothly split into two fire teams, one of four soldiers and the other of five, manoeuvring with fluid and practiced ease. The smaller fire team peeled off to start searching the offices on the ground floor, while the other clambered over the barricade at the foot of the staircase and began heading up as they shouted warnings and updates back and forth.

"Clear!"

Crack! "Clear here!"

"Clear!"

"Alpha Three Zero Charlie, this is Alpha Three Zero Alpha, send sitrep, over."

"Den, on yer right!" Crack!

"Why-aye, thanks, man!" Crack-crack! "Clear!"

"Copy that. Alpha Three Zero Alpha, out."

"Watch yer fuckin' fire, we got a couple of live ones up there!"

Trembling as she felt the adrenaline start to bleed out of her system, Gina stood up and donned her 'Smokey Bear' hat. Her riot gun wasn't quite pointing at the soldiers, but wasn't exactly aimed at the floor either.

She felt something tug at her hip; briefly glancing down, she saw that Theo – who was still behind her – had slipped her now-reloaded revolver back in its holster on her hip. Looking back up at the approaching soldiers, she slowly released a deep breath, and felt her hammering heart start to slow down at last.

One of the soldiers stepped forward, whipping his left hand through a brief series of abrupt hand gestures while his right kept a firm hold of his carbine's pistol grip, the barrel aimed safely down at the floor. The other four members of the fire team promptly headed off to search the building's upper floor; seconds later, Gina began to hear a clatter of doors being kicked in followed by shouts of "Clear!"

A man in his late twenties, the soldier was apparently quite unfazed by his recent experience. At a height of around six feet and with his athletically muscular build, he towered over Gina by a good several inches, though the expression of polite curiosity on his handsomely boyish face suggested that at least he had no intention of trying to intimidate her.

"I'm Hastings," the soldier offered by way of introduction, his refined and elegant cut-glass English accent somehow at odds with the focused and controlled aggression he and his troops had displayed only seconds earlier. "Are you two alright?"

Gina nodded. "I'm fine," she said, still barely able to believe what had just happened.

Theo stepped out from behind Gina, and she saw that his eyes were huge behind his glasses. "Uh, y-yeah… I'm-I'm okay, t-too," he stammered.

"Glad to hear it. Can you tell me when all this—" Hastings gestured towards the heaps of deceased zombies down in the lobby, "—began, Officer…?"

"Buccelli. Deputy Gina Buccelli, Springton sheriff's department," Gina gently corrected him.

Hastings gave her a small self-deprecating smile. "My apologies, Deputy."

Gina grinned back at him, finally lowering the riot gun's muzzle and flicking the safety catch on. "No problem, sir," she assured him.

"I'm, ah, Th-Theo Ward," Theo stammered, awkwardly proffering his hand. Smiling politely, Hastings shook it. "B-but my friends c-call me 'Theo'."

Hastings looked puzzled and amused as he released Theo's hand. "I'm sorry?"

Theo blushed and ducked his head. "Uh, I m-meant it's sh-short for 'Theodore'."

"Ah, I see now." Hastings turned back to Gina. "Now… can either of you tell us when this outbreak began, please?"

"Uh… that would've been Saturday night," Gina replied. "My boss, Sheriff Kraatz, radioed in to say he'd found a girl – a teenage girl, I think – just outside the town, lying unconscious by the road. He said he was gonna take her to Doctor Turner's house so the doc could take a look at her, but he didn't sound, y'know, worried or anything.

"About an hour later, the sheriff radioed me again. He was screaming something about the girl attacking him and Turner, and I heard some gunfire, then he just dropped off the air…" she broke off, shaking her head.

"Everything went to hell after that, sir. I drove over to Turner's place; I found the sheriff and Turner were both dead, 'long with Turner's neighbours, and this girl was… w-was eating parts of them…" Gina closed her eyes and looked down, forcing herself to take deep breaths. "Sorry, but after that it's all kind of a blur…"

A gloved hand patted Gina on the shoulder. "It's alright, Deputy – that's plenty of information," said Hastings. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry for what you've both endured."

The tramp-tramp-tramp of booted feet heralded the return of Hastings's fire team. "Top floor's all clear, Boss," reported a giant black man, who was easily three or four inches taller than Hastings.

"Thanks, Tiny," Hastings replied. "Let's head outside and finish the sweep, shall we?"

Tiny and the other three soldiers nodded. "Boss," they chorused in near-unison.

Hastings turned back to Gina and Theo. "Deputy Buccelli, Mr Ward, I leave it entirely up to you to decide if you want to venture outside with us or not. I readily understand you've no particular reason to trust us, and if I were in your shoes, I know that I certainly wouldn't either.

"However, I should warn you that we'll burn down this building – and the rest of the town as well – sometime in the next hour or so to ensure the complete destruction of that lot," Hastings gestured towards the scattered remains of the zombies in the lobby below. "So, I recommend you vacate the premises before we do so."

"W-why are y-you gonna burn down the town?" Theo quavered as he and Gina fell into step with the soldiers and headed for the staircase.

"Our standing orders are to ensure that there is absolutely no possible chance of a secondary outbreak," said Hastings. "That means we incinerate every single piece of contaminated bio-matter – skin, bones, internal organs, fluids, the lot. We don't want to see this sort of nightmare happen again. Razing the town ensures a clean sweep. Besides, I doubt anyone would willingly choose to live here again after… after this."

Gina shivered. "Sounds good to me," she said quietly.

Theo slowly shook his head. "That's not the only reason, though – is it?"

"True enough," Hastings admitted.

"What is the other reason, then?" Gina asked, shooting Hastings a suspicious glance.

"Over the past couple of centuries, there have been a number of attempts to… weaponise these things," Hastings explained, grimacing as if the words had left a foul taste in his mouth. "These attempts have been made by various national governments, private companies, and solitary individuals I can only describe as 'mad scientists'.

"Every single such effort has ended in disaster, and often with heavy casualties among the nearest civilian population centres. The only silver lining is that, sooner or later, nearly anyone moronic enough to experiment on zombies ends up getting eaten by their own test subjects."

Gina's blood ran cold at Hastings's words as they emerged into the main street.

"Y-you think that's what happened here?" Theo stammered.

Hastings shook his head as he strode towards the vans, waving off his fire team to join the rest of the force clearing the street. "I've honestly no idea," he admitted. "We'll have to gather more intel before we'll be able to determine that – and frankly, that might prove impossible. It usually is," he added glumly.

Two dark blue Range Rovers and a pair of unmarked white Ford Transit vans were slewed across the street. Dozens of prone zombies were scattered all over the town, sporting gunshot wounds to their heads or decapitated outright. Several more soldiers were patrolling the area, firing off a shot or two every so often whenever they identified a stray surviving zombie.

"Bel!" Hastings shouted.

A pretty brunette woman in her late twenties jogged over, her carbine's stock nestled in her shoulder and clearly ready for use. "Found some survivors, Jeremy?" she asked cheerfully.

"Yup," said Hastings. "I need you to check them over."

"Can do." Slinging her carbine across her back, Bel pulled a small oval-shaped stone from one of her waistcoat's pouches and turned to Gina and Theo. "Now, just relax: this won't take a moment, and you won't feel a thing – promise!" she added, giving them a friendly grin.

"Uh, okay," Gina replied, feeling a little overwhelmed and puzzled.

"Just hold still," Bel said. Holding the stone up level with Gina's eyes, Bel muttered a few words under her breath; Gina felt the hairs on the back of her neck tingle as the Englishwoman did so. The stone began to glow, emanating a silver light that gently washed over Gina; slowly, Bel brought the stone down until it was about level with Gina's midriff.

"Right, you're all clear," Bel told Gina, then turned to Theo and began to repeat the process.

Baffled, Gina glanced around, trying to take in everything that was happening. Two fire teams of soldiers were in the process of effecting entry into a couple of houses, blasting open locks with shotguns and storming inside. The third fire team was patrolling the street, checking every downed zombie to make sure it was dead.

Hastings had walked a dozen yards or so away and was in earnest conversation with a ginger-haired man; Gina couldn't hear much of what they were saying, and understood little of what she could make out: "…seal off…" "…perry-check…" "…slotted six…" "…send sitrep…" "…don't want to basha up here if we can avoid…" "…sharpen parangs…" "…refill ammo scales…"

"Okay, you're done," Bel said, snapping Gina out of her reverie. Bel whispered a few words, and the stone in her hand stopped glowing.

"Uh… wh-what was that?" Gina asked.

"I was checking you two for any signs of infection," Bel said calmly, slipping the stone back into its pouch and gripping her carbine with both hands again. "You're both clean, nothing to worry about."

"But… but… what was that stone-thing?" Theo asked.

"Oh, just a minor piece of magic," said Bel.

Gina shook her head, incredulous. "You're saying that magic's real?"

Bel grinned, plainly amused. "What – you can handle zombies being real, but not magic?"

"Err… huh." Gina rocked back on her heels. "I, uh… I guess I never thought of that," she conceded. "So, you're a—?"

"One sec," Bel interrupted, half-turning and levelling her carbine to fire off two quick shots; a zombie that had just begun to twitch promptly slumped, a pair of holes neatly drilled in the centre of its forehead. Lowering the carbine, Bel turned back to Gina and Theo. "Sorry, you were saying…?"

"Umm… i-is 'witch' the correct term, or-or do you prefer 'mage'?" Theo asked.

Bel shrugged. "Meh: either's fine."

[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]

Sunnydale High School, Sunnydale, CA

"Alright: whadda we gotta take care of – if anything?" Faith asked, as the Scoobies variously sat at or slumped across the main study table.

"W-Well, it was kinda like D&D in that crypt – kill the bad guys and loot them for treasure," Andrew said, gleefully admiring the large stack of weapons, rings, gloves, amulets, bracers, gauntlets, and other assorted items that were piled up at one end of the table. The demon knight's suit of full plate armour and helmet were laid out in the weapons cage.

"Yeah, though we need to check all of this stuff out properly before we try to, y'know, use it or anything," Warren pointed out. "Finding out the hard way that something's cursed would suck big-time. We need to research and we need to cast 'Identify' spells to work out what we've got, what we can use and how, what we need to destroy, and stuff like that."

"But not today," Faith insisted. "You guys're bushed; hell, Slayers only need, like, three or four hours' sleep per night, tops, an' I'm about ready ta hit the sack."

Oz nodded. "Yeah, this stuff'll keep fer another day," he agreed.

"Soon as we're done here, guys, please: go home an' get a solid eight hours," Faith continued. "If ya need someplace else to crash – so's you don't need to answer awkward questions from your 'rents, or whatever – then, uh… well, Tee an' me gotta couple beds in the spare room at our place, an' a real comfy couch," she finished awkwardly, fumbling over the words.

The former Justice Leaguers exchanged openly surprised glances at that, and even Oz raised an eyebrow. "Uh, thanks, Faith," Warren finally stammered. "That's… well, wow."

"Look, uh… it's really not that big a deal," Faith said quietly, looking down at the tabletop. "Um… so… there anything else we need t' talk about?

"I can't wait to take a good look at that katana you got from the samurai assassin, Faith," Andrew said eagerly, then paused to release a loud yawn. "Sorry, 'scuse me… but, yeah, I'm pretty sure I've seen it somewhere i-in one of Mr Giles' books…"

"Talking of books, I think I got something th-that we might not wanna leave for later," Jonathan spoke up. "Y'know you told us about your Slayer dream yesterday? The one with Bob the T-800? I think I might have worked out who those allies he mentioned are – or will be, or, well… you get the idea."

Faith perked up at that. "Yeah?" she said, intrigued. "Okay, whatcha got, Torch?"

"Well, at first I thought it had something to do with Arthurian legend, what with the whole Excalibur connection," Jonathan began, pulling a large book out of his backpack and setting it on the table. "But th-then, i-it occurred to me that Bob said these people have a picture of Excalibur that's important to them… and I remembered a-a History project I did last year, and, well… bits and pieces started to fit together for me, and I did some digging around last night… or-or this morning… or… anyway, I couldn't sleep after that fight, so I did some research and found this.

"See, there was this group," Jonathan continued, rapidly flipping through the book, "a-and I remembered reading that, when they were new, th-they needed, like, an icon, a-a symbol that suited them. So, the group's founders, they thought it over, and one of the guys came up with the idea of this—" Holding the book out, Jonathan tapped a photograph of a crude pencil sketch. "—Excalibur, falling from the sky and surrounded by fire."

Faith nodded. "Sure seems like that fits with what I saw in my dream."

"However, then they took the sketch to another dude who was supposed to make, y'know, shoulder patches a-and cap badges and stuff based on the drawing," Jonathan said, growing excited. "B-But the sketch isn't all that clear, y'know? So, the guy got the wrong idea – he thought those were wings, not flames! A-And when he was done, he came up with this…"

Jonathan turned the page, then tapped another photograph. "This is known as 'the Winged Dagger'. It belongs to these guys," he added, indicating another photograph on the opposite page.

"Huh… well, hell, I never saw that coming," Faith said, still staring down at the book. "Catchy motto," she commented.

Jonathan offered her a nervous smile. "Uh, y-yeah, I guess so…"

Faith glanced up at him. "Hey, d'you know if Slayers have a motto?" she asked.

Jonathan shook his head. "I-I don't think they do, no."

"Then I'm borrowing this one," Faith said, grinning.

"Um… what motto's that?" Warren asked, craning his neck to try and see the photo more clearly from his seat across the table.

"Somethin' short, sweet, simple, and in good old fuckin' English – no Latin or Ancient Sumerian or some other dead language," said Faith. "'Who Dares, Wins.' Now is it just me, or does that sound like it was made fer Slayers?"

[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]

Stirling Lines, Hereford, England

22nd Special Air Service Regimental Headquarters

The bunker complex was built over forty feet underground, safely hidden away from conventional attack, nuclear blasts and – most dangerous of all – the press. Within the heart of the complex's labyrinth of bare concrete corridors was the Operations Room.

The Ops Room was a high-tech battle management centre crammed full of computer workstations, at which were seated nearly two-dozen soldiers clad in green-black-brown Disrupted Pattern Material combat fatigues that displayed no rank insignia or unit flashes. The air was constantly abuzz with overlapping conversation and the strained whirring of overworked computer hard drives, and occasionally – very occasionally – punctuated by tannoy announcements from the duty operations officer.

Several vast screens dominated one wall of the room, the largest of which showed a map of the world with various symbols and icons scattered around it. On an adjoining wall was the regiment's status board, displaying a list of all the duty elements:

A Squadron

B Squadron

D Squadron

G Squadron

Duty Troop

Pagoda Team

Ulster Troop

F Troop

Beside the name of each element was a row of coloured lights that indicated their status. The Pagoda Team and the Duty Troop had only amber and red lights, while the other elements had green, amber and red; each of the squadrons had a stack of four rows of lights next to them.

Currently, Pagoda and the Duty Troop had amber lights showing next to them while D Squadron's lights were all dark. F Troop, two of A Squadron's sets of lights and one set of B Squadron's were red-lit; the rest all showed green.

"Evening, Roddy."

Captain Rodney Griffiths, the ops officer, turned upon hearing that. "Good evening, sir," he replied. "Welcome back."

"Thanks," said Forwood. Deeply-tanned with a boxer's build and prematurely greying hair, Lieutenant Colonel Alan Forwood was in his late thirties, and looked more like a frontline soldier – or possibly a veteran enforcer for a Mafia crime family – than he did the commanding officer of a British Army regiment.

"How was the COBRA exercise, sir?" Griffiths asked politely.

"Tedious as always. What's the latest?" Forwood asked as he strode in to stand beside Griffiths' desk, from where he intently studied the map and status board.

Griffiths handed over a sheaf of a dozen printouts. "Fairly quiet, sir," he said, as Forwood began flicking through the reports. "Nothing new in Columbia, Bosnia, the Gulf, the South China Sea, or Ulster. D Squadron's still providing the garrison detachments and CT team. There's a bunch of idiots attempting to open the Belize Hellmouth; F Troop have deployed, and I expect to receive word from Captain d'Erlanger in—" Griffiths paused and glanced at a clock on the wall, "—fourteen minutes."

"Who's trying it on?" Forwood asked, glancing up from the reports.

Griffiths shook his head, unconcerned. "Just a dozen or so members of the Sisterhood of Jhe, nothing they can't handle," he said calmly. "F Troop's got seven lads from D Squadron and five Shakyboats on the books just now, and there's a member of the Coven backing them up. That should be enough to get the job done."

Forwood nodded. "Alright," he said. "What else is in the works?"

"Doctor Aletha's team – the ladies themselves, plus two lads from G Squadron and a couple of Shakyboats – reported in last night: they're on their way back from Antarctica right now. Endurance is due to pick them up in an hour, and will take them up to the Falklands; they'll grab a flight out of Mount Pleasant, bounce through Ascension to Brize Norton, and should be back here inside of forty-eight hours."

"No luck finding that 'Gate, then?"

Griffiths glumly shook his head. "No, it looks like the Yanks got there first."

"The thieving bastards…" Forwood growled. "That thing was in our territory, dammit."

"Yes, sir," Griffiths said sympathetically. "Moving on: Seven Troop from B Squadron has just reported slotting a warlock from the Mandulisian Cabal and destroying a Korraxis demon he'd summoned in Portland – the American one, that is, not Portland Bill or that Australian city. They're cleaning up now."

"I trust that by 'cleaning up', you really mean 'razing the ritual site to the ground to make sure no one can repeat the summoning'?" Forwood said sternly.

"Indeed, sir," Griffiths smoothly replied. "A Squadron's got a troop each in the US and Southampton who've found trouble – Alphas Three Zero and Two Zero respectively. Two Troop have run into a cell of the Blood Pact in the docks; Sergeant Blackwell says they can handle the bastards on their own quite comfortably, and expects to finish them off within the next ten hours at most."

Forwood nodded. "Well, Geoff's run plenty of ops against them before, so he ought to know what he's talking about if anyone does…" he mused aloud. "And Alpha Three Zero?"

"They caught wind of a minor outbreak of zombies – they should be nearly done mopping them up about now, actually. Captain Hastings checked in half an hour ago to report they were five miles out from the target and heading in by road."

Forwood looked up sharply from the sheaf of reports. "Where's that?"

"Springton, Arizona – some little half-a-horse town out in the middle of nowhere," Griffiths assured him. "Jeremy's pessimistic about finding survivors, but at least it's pretty isolated; the chances of this blowing up into a major outbreak are almost completely nil."

"Opposition?"

Griffiths shrugged. "Call it a hundred, maybe one-fifty zombies, tops; but realistically it'll probably work out at less than half that many – maybe as few as twenty or thirty."

"Alright," Forwood said, sounding thoughtful. "What's Alpha Three Zero's strength?"

"Thirteen badged, including Hastings, and a support element of three: Captain Reckliss from the Coven, Corporal Price and Lance Corporal Tanner. The rest of Three Troop is split between Training Wing and the CRW cell."

Forwood nodded. "Dom Tanner's from Signals Corps, isn't he?" he asked. "The techno-mage?"

"Yes, sir."

"And which Corporal Price are we talking about? EOD or REME?"

"REME, sir. They needed a grease monkey and he jumped at the opportunity."

"Well, it sounds like they should do alright," said Forwood. "When can we expect to hear from them?"

"An outbreak that small? Call it another five minutes, maybe ten, tops."

"What news from One Troop?"

"Alpha One Zero cleared Columbian airspace three hours ago. Captain Greystone reported clean kills on both of the Tier One targets: all Tier Twos are confirmed slotted, zero collateral damage, and no casualties on our side."

"Excellent! How about Four Troop? They're still cleaning up after the destruction of the Alabaman Hellmouth, aren't they? Out in that forest?"

"Yes, sir."

"All going well?"

"Seems to be, sir."

"Any problems with the locals?"

"They checked in this morning to report that a couple of hillbilly johnnies had taken pot-shots at them, sir – real snaggle-toothed inbred Deliverance types from the sound of it. Apparently, one even had a banjo on him."

Forwood's eyes narrowed. "And Four Troop's response to this was…?"

"Termination with extreme prejudice, sir."

"Good," Forwood growled. "Will the bodies be a problem?"

"No, sir, that's all been taken care of."

"And everything else is quiet, I trust?"

Griffiths nodded. "Yes, si—" He paused, unconsciously reaching up to press the earpiece of his headset. "What is it, Corporal?" Griffiths asked. A second later, his eyes widened in alarm, and he turned back to Forwood as he rose from his seat. "We have a Case Lima, sir."

Griffiths quickly led the way through the Ops Room, Forwood following along behind, until they halted behind a terminal and the young woman seated before it. "Corporal Williams," Griffiths said curtly, getting her attention. "You reported a Case Lima?"

"Yes, sir," replied Corporal Sandra Williams, briefly glancing away from her terminal and politely nodding to both officers in turn before turning back to her work. "Priority flash traffic from Box 500, sir – confirmed sighting of the vampire Kakistos. He left Las Vegas thirty minutes ago, and he's heading for the Sunnydale Hellmouth."

"How reliable is this intelligence?" Forwood asked, his voice quiet yet firm.

"It's categorised as Class Three, sir," said Williams.

Griffiths let out a low whistle. "That's a pretty rare fish," he mused aloud. "The last time we got one of those, G Squadron wound up slotting Urlock Gaur."

"And Alpha Three Zero and Bravo Seven Zero are the closest callsigns," Forwood pointed out, looking up at the icons on the map. "It's practically on their doorsteps… and there are no other friendly units in the area closer than F Troop. The nearest Shakyboats are aboard HMS Sovereign."

"Sir!" another signaller called out. "Incoming call from DSF, priority Alpha Seven!"

"Punch it up," Forwood ordered.

"Yes, sir."

Forwood looked up as one of the large screens on the wall flickered, before quickly resolving into the image of Brigadier Julian Page, the United Kingdom's Director of Special Forces. Clad in full British Army dress uniform, he stood in the middle of his own underground operations room at the Duke of York's building in King's Road, London.

"Alan," Page curtly greeted him. "I take it you already know about the Lima?"

"Yes, sir," said Forwood.

"Well, so does Number Ten," Page continued. "The PM wants to Kakistos destroyed – we can't take chances if he's mucking about with a Hellmouth. And this is the best shot we'll have at clobbering the bastard since '85."

"I can put boots on the dirt in Sunnydale in under ten hours, sir," Forwood offered.

"What size force?"

"Two troops. Three Troop are in Arizona right now, finishing off a zombie outbreak – thirteen badged personnel, three support: one of the latter's from the Coven; they'll arrive first. The second unit, Seven Troop, will take—" Forwood paused, glancing over at Griffiths.

"Eleven to twelve hours, sir," Griffiths supplied.

Forwood gave him a grateful nod, then turned back to Page. "That'll add another twelve badged personnel to the force, and two support," Forwood continued. "They'll both go in by road."

Page nodded, looking contemplative. "That ought to do the job," he agreed. "I – one moment," he said; Forwood and Griffiths watched as the screen showed a major approach Page and hand him a printout, which Page quickly perused, then looked back up at the two SAS officers.

"Alan, I've just had word from the Poole mob," Page announced. "Tom Dutton says 4 Section can effect an amphibious deployment from the Sovereign and deploy to Sunnydale within eleven hours. I want you to deploy Three and Seven Troops to Sunnydale with all available speed: Three Troop go in first, while Seven Troop and 4 Section form the second wave for in case it all goes Pete Tong, understood?"

Forwood gave a crisp nod. "Yes, sir."

"Good. That'll add another eight badged personnel to the force. Do Three or Seven Troops have officers?"

"Three Troop does, sir, but the ice cream boys don't. Jeremy Hastings's running Three Troop – he came up with the plan to slot that bastard Sheznavitch last year."

"Ah, yes, that was nicely done. Alright: tell Hastings he's got command of the whole force – I'll straighten things out with Dutton to make sure there's no arsing around on that side of things."

"Yes, sir."

"Excellent. Once Kakistos is destroyed, they're to give the town a good going over and raid as many vampire nests and hostile demon lairs as they can find – casualties permitting, of course. They'll have until Friday to finish up there, pull out on Saturday morning, local time. Questions?"

"Might the Council try to interfere, sir?" Forwood asked. "The last I heard was that they had a Slayer camped out full-time on that particular Hellmouth."

"Riverside and Thames House are getting some confusing reports from their sources within the Council," Page told him. "But it looks like some of the Scourge of Europe killed that Slayer a fortnight ago. We think she might have bagged Angelus before they took her down, though, and the Council seem to be having difficulties locating the new Slayer, but the spooks have got nothing concrete on that score. With any luck, the Council won't be an issue. Still, if it turns out intel's wrong, then your chaps know the Second Slayer Protocol."

"Yes, sir."

"Very well, Alan: I shan't keep you. And good hunting." So saying, Page's image vanished from the screen as the link was broken.

"Corporal Williams?" Forwood said, grabbing a spare headset and donning it.

"Sir?"

"Patch me through to Captain Hastings, immediately."

"Yes, sir," Williams replied, fingers already flying over her keyboard. "There's a Skynet 4 currently in position—" a satellite's location flickered on the ops room's main display screen in response, "—establishing connection now…

"Skynet uplink in five seconds… four… three… two… one… contact!"

[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]

Springton, Arizona

"Well, that's the last of our stuff," Gina sighed, closing the boot of her newly-repaired and fully-fuelled Ford Escort estate before taking one last look at her house. Zombie corpses were strewn around it, and two of the soldiers – introduced only by their nicknames, 'Nick' and 'Badger' – had just finished rigging the building for destruction.

Further up the street, the side door of one of the Transit vans slid open, and a baby-faced young soldier jumped out, clutching a satellite 'phone in one hand and a carbine in the other. "Boss!" he shouted, trotting quickly over to Hastings and holding out the phone. "Sunray for you."

Hastings gave the newcomer a curt nod and accepted the phone. "Thanks, Dom," he said, his voice easily carrying the distance to Gina and Theo in the tranquil silence. "Sunray, this Alpha Three Zero Alpha…" he said, as he accepted the 'phone and raised it to his ear. "…yes, sir… …right… …right…"

Dom hefted his carbine, holding it at the ready and carefully watching the street while Hastings was thus distracted.

"Hey, Nick!" Gina called out. "Who's 'Sunray'?"

"Our boss," Nick replied, as he and Badger quickly walked up the front path toward the road, playing out a length of detonating cord behind them.

"Home's calling E.T.," Badger chipped in, perfectly deadpan.

"Riiiiight… oh-kaaay," Gina dragged the words out, puzzling over the unhelpful answer.

"W-Why might that be?" Theo asked.

"New orders: odds are it means we've got a fastball," Nick said as they reached the gate to Gina's front lawn, and crouched to begin connecting their length of det cord to a longer piece that ran down the length of the street.

"And… what does that mean?" Gina asked.

"The balloon's gone up real quick real unexpected-like," Badger elaborated, not looking up from the job at hand.

"So we're going to get dropped right in the middle of a bloody great big pile of shit – again," Nick continued. Having finished making and testing the connection, both soldiers stood up; Nick keyed his headset and spoke into the mic: "Alpha Three Two Delta; set, over." He paused, listening intently as his earpiece crackled. "Alpha Three Two Delta; have that, out."

Glancing over her shoulder, Gina saw some of the other soldiers gradually filing back up the street towards their vehicles

"Annnd we're done," Badger quietly announced.

Handing the sat 'phone back to Dom, Hastings keyed his comms. "All callsigns, Alpha Three Zero Alpha: RV on the wagons in two, out," he ordered into his mic.

"You two might want to come along for this," Nick suggested. "Boss is probably going to discuss our travel plans at some point."

"Yeah, and the time for demolition," said Badger.

"Sounds like a good idea," Theo agreed. "Thanks, guys."

"Sooo… where're you guys from?" Gina idly asked, as she and Theo fell into step beside the two soldiers, strolling over to the knot of vehicles.

"Manchester." "Basildon," came two near-simultaneous replies.

"Umm… where're those?"

"Manchester? North of England," said Badger.

"Basildon's part of London," Nick explained. "It's the name of one of the old villages that got absorbed as the city expanded over the centuries."

"Yeah, but where're you from originally?" Gina asked Nick.

The black soldier stiffened and his eyes narrowed as he looked Gina squarely in the eye. "'Originally'?" Nick asked, his voice tight.

Gina looked puzzled. "Yeah, y'know – the old country."

"Oh, well, originally I'm from Shepherd's Bush," Nick said sarcastically.

"Where's that?"

"Another part of London."

As the rest of the soldiers began to gather around them, Gina suppressed the urge to smack her head repeatedly against the side of the nearest Range Rover. "Crap," she said quietly, then spoke up: "Look, ah… Nick, I'm real sorry for just now… I don't usually act like a complete and total ass-hat, it's just I haven't slept in days, and been running from and fighting zombies… and, well, I guess I always thought all Brits were white Little Lord Fauntleroy-types or Hollywood bad guys, and… Well, I'm really, really sorry, man, I screwed up there."

Nick studied her intently for a second, then cracked a lopsided smile. "No problem," he said. "You don't exactly live up to your stereotype either."

Badger nodded. "Yeah: for one thing, you've still got most of your teeth."

Bewildered, Gina looked at Theo: he could only offer her a bemused shrug. "Um… what stereotype would that be?" Gina asked, turning back to the two soldiers.

Nick and Badger exchanged glances. "Dlang-dlang dlang-dlang dlang-dlang dlang…" Badger began.

"…Squeal, piggy, squeal," Nick continued, as his grin broadened.

Gina rolled her eyes and gave a small chuckle. "Oh, har-har, fun-nee," she drawled in exaggerated sarcasm.

"Y'know what?" Nick gave her a playful nudge with his elbow. "You're alright, Deppity."

"Alright, listen in," Hastings began, looking sombre as he called the rallied troop to order, bringing an end to the hubbub of casual conversations. "We've got a fastball: our orders are to head for California, the Sunnydale Hellmouth. Kakistos is heading there from Vegas right now: he's got half an hour's head start on us."

Gina and Theo exchanged puzzled looks as the men and women around them began looking much less relaxed at those words.

"We'll be part of a task force consisting of us, a Bravo callsign, and a section from the Shakyboats," Hastings continued: Gina and Theo's bewilderment only deepened further, but the others seemed to perfectly understand the alien-sounding terms and slang.

"We're the first wave: our first priority's to get in; find somewhere we can set up an FOB and prep to receive the other units; and recce the town to gather intel, and see if we can find out where Kakistos might plan to establish himself. The overall objective is to slot Kakistos once and for all. If we can pull it off by ourselves, we have a green light to get on with it: otherwise, we wait for the others and hit him in force."

"I'm sorry, but who exactly is this 'Kakstoss' guy, Hastings?" Gina piped up.

"Kakistos is the world's oldest vampire, and a very nasty piece of work," Hastings said calmly, unperturbed by the interruption.

Ken – an angular-featured man with ginger hair in his mid-thirties, he was the oldest member of the gathering – snorted at that. "Fookin' unnerstatement, Boss… 'E's the evilest fookin' bastard on the fookin' planet," he growled, turning to Gina. "Rape, torture, massacre – you name it, 'e's fookin' done it more times'n you've 'ad 'ot dinners; even invented a few methods 'imself. Bin aroond near on six thoosand fookin' years."

"So, killing him… wouldn't be a crime, I take it?" Gina checked.

Ken grinned at that. "Aye, it wouldn't. Wuz ye thinkin' of tryin' tae arrest uz all orr summat?"

"That seemed kind of impractical," Gina admitted. "I was just going to raise a formal objection and ask nicely, and hope that did the trick."

Ken shrugged his brawny shoulders. "Aye, weel, it wuid've worrked better'n ye goin' ahl gung-ho an' shite ever wouldae doon," he agreed.

"Aren't the Council s'posed to have a Slayer on that Hellmouth, Boss?" Badger asked.

"It looks like she might be dead," said Hastings. "However, if the intel's wrong, or the new Slayer's wound up there, we resort to the Second Slayer Protocol."

"Um… wh-what's that?" asked Theo.

"I attempt to make contact by myself, minimal armament," Hastings explained. "We go in diplomatic, play it straight and level, and try to form a working agreement together. Getting a Vampire Slayer on-side would help tremendously with bringing down Kakistos."

"With a job description like that, I guess it would," Gina chipped in.

"Quite. Now, this is going to be a tough one," said Hastings. "I won't lie to you: going after Kakistos, odds are we're going to get hit heavily. If anyone wants to bin it, now's the time to say."

Five seconds ticked past in silence, with no takers.

"Alright," Hastings continued, a small smile forming on his lips. "Now, for at least the next week or so, it looks like we'll be continuing to operate in the US. It's a bizarre country; it had three active Hellmouths until last month, but there's still two left; and the locals have some customs and habits that are downright freakishly alien to us."

"Bring out the gimp," Badger said helpfully.

"Gimp's sleeping," Nick retorted.

"Well, I guess you're gonna have to go wake him up now, won't you?"

A couple of the soldiers chuckled at the exchange; others shook their heads in mock-disapproval, or silently smirked in amusement. "Knob-bers!" another called out.

"Now, there's one very important thing about America and Americans that I want you all to bear very closely in mind in the days to come," Hastings calmly interrupted the by-play, his expression studiously deadpan as the assembled men and women fell silent. "From a 'hearts and minds' perspective, it's very important to understanding the local culture and mentality. And it is this:

"In this country, they all drive on the wrong side of the road."

For a second, the troop seemed to freeze.

And then, Badger burst out laughing.

A few of the other soldiers joined him; more just shook their heads, smirked, or cat-called:

"Boss! Hate to feckin' say it, but Charlie feckin' Croaker, you en't!"

"Wanker!"

"You're only supposed to blow the bloody doors off!"

"Christ, couldn't you at least come up with something original, Boss?"

"This is the Self-Pres-er-vation Soc-i-e-ty!"

"Alright, wind it in, you lot," Hastings cut in once more, openly grinning. "Now, it's currently—" Hastings glanced at his watch, "—oh-eight-twenty hours local time; I want us to be on the road in five minutes. We detonate after clearing a one-mile radius. Got it?"

A ragged chorus of "Yes, Boss," was his reply.

"Good. Complete final dems prep and fire up the wagons, get them ready to move," Hastings ordered: instantly the assembled soldiers broke ranks, bustling this way and that in a scene of organised chaos.

"Deputy Buccelli, Mr Ward," Hastings said, approaching them. "Do you want to ride in convoy with us, or head the opposite direction? You'd be very welcome with us if that's what you want?"

"Uh, wow, th-thanks, uh, M-Mr Hastings—" Theo hesitantly stammered.

"We'd love to, but we're heading for Vegas," Gina interrupted, taking Theo's hand in hers.

Turning to her, Theo blinked in bemusement. "Um… Vegas?" he asked.

"Remember what we were talking about before dawn?" Gina prompted.

Theo's eyes widened. "W-Wait, y-you're serious about that?" he asked, not daring to allow himself to hope. "Y-You mean to say…?"

Gina smirked. "I mean to say," she agreed, then slid her hands up to the back of Theo's head and pulled him down into a passionate kiss.

Wolf-whistles, a few playful cat-calls, and congratulations rang out around them; neither Gina nor Theo paid them any heed. Eventually, starved for oxygen, they broke apart, panting for breath.

Hastings proffered a gloved hand. "Allow me to be the first to offer my congratulations," he said politely.

Grinning, Gina shook his hand. "Thanks."

"Sorry we didn't get you two a toaster or something as a wedding gift," Hastings continued.

Theo chuckled at that as he accepted his own handshake. "Ah, th-that's okay."

"Yeah, you guys did show up in the nick of time to save our lives, after all," Gina agreed.

Hastings smiled at that. "Well, I won't keep you," he said. "Good luck."

"You too," Gina replied, then turned and broke into a jog back to her car, Theo hot on her heels.

[—]

Half a minute later, Hastings' smile grew wider and he shook his head ruefully as he watched the dull red Escort pull away from the curb and accelerate away down the road. Wrenching open the front passenger door of one of the Range Rovers, he clambered in and slammed the door after him, then rested his carbine's muzzle on the crack between the door and the dashboard, ready for use.

"All callsigns, Alpha Three Zero Alpha," Hastings said into his mic as more members of his troop climbed into the vehicle. "Count in."

In the driver's seat beside Hastings, James 'Badger' Brock glanced over his shoulder, gaze running over Hastings and the other two soldiers who'd gotten settled in the back. "Alpha Three One Bravo: four up," Badger announced into his own headset mic.

"Alpha Three Two Bravo: four up," Nick's report crackled over the net.

"Alpha Three Three Bravo: four up."

"Alpha Three Four Bravo: four up."

"Alpha Three Zero Alpha, copy that," Hastings replied. "Move out."

Grinning, Badger put the Range Rover into gear and pulled away sharply, closely followed by the rest of the little convoy. Glancing into his wing mirror, Hastings watched the Escort gradually accelerate away into the distance, Springton's buildings flashing past the window.

Its occupants bound for their new future together, the Escort tore hell-for-leather out across the scrubland on the narrow strip of road. Meanwhile, Three Troop's convoy accelerated away in the opposite direction, heading straight for Sunnydale, and the storm that awaited them there.

[—]

Discarded scraps of paper and litter whirled lazily through the air, gently bounced along by a light breeze and dancing amid the fallen zombies. Springton was finally dead and done.

Abruptly, the town hall exploded, flinging shrapnel in all directions. The post office across the road was next, followed by the sheriff's department office. One after another, the town's buildings were blown apart in rapid succession, until at last all that remained was a merrily burning mass of wreckage and rubble.

To be concluded…

[—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—] [—]

A/N: Here we are at last – the penultimate chapter of Free Spirits. I'm rather relieved that it took me less than a month and a half to finish this one… ;)

If anyone's wondering, Gibbs' Rule Number 9 is 'Always carry a knife'.

There's just one more chapter left of Free Spirits, I promise: it's half-completed, actually, as I wrote some of the scenes before deciding they wouldn't work very well as part of this chapter. Sorry it's taken me so long to complete this episode, but I hope you've all enjoyed getting this far.

Assorted 'in real life' notes:

- 'Skynet' is the name of a network of British military communications satellites, which are also shared with NATO for combined operations. The first of the Mark 1 Skynet satellites was deployed in orbit and entered full operational use in 1969.

- British special forces units (including the SAS, SBS, 14th Intelligence Company and assorted others) have been collectively known by the nickname of 'them' by the rest of Britain's armed forces since at least the late 1970s (and possibly earlier).

- 'The Shakyboats' is one of the nicknames for the Special Boat Service (SBS) of the Royal Marines Commandos, the Royal Navy's special forces unit.

- Australian troops who used the M79 grenade launcher while fighting in the Vietnam War nicknamed the weapon 'the Wombat Gun'. This nickname was quickly adopted by British, New Zealander and other Commonwealth military units who came into close contact with Australian troops and also used the M79.

"In this country, they all drive on the wrong side of the road" and "You're only supposed to blow the bloody doors off!" are quotes from the 1969 film The Italian Job, which I do not own the copyright to. The song "Heroes" was written by David Bowie and Brian Eno in 1977; I don't know who owns the copyright, but it's not me.

Many thanks to everyone on TtH and FFN who's reviewed: I treasure each and every one of them. Please keep them coming…

I'll be back,

El ;)