Ten Thousand
by wisteria
5. Alexandria
After careful examination and consumption
of four bottles, Stella was now officially Spike's favorite beer.
Too bad the blood bags were back at the hotel; they would have made a great
chaser. This bar was a bit too neon for his tastes, but it was still
open at 3 a.m. and the bartender accepted Visa. Spike would rather
wallow drunk and around other people than alone at the hotel. After
Dawn's impromptu visit the night before he left, solo drinking didn't hold
much appeal.
It had been a hard night, and he needed the break. He'd wandered
around in a daze for a couple of hours after the bomb, suddenly scared shitless
by the prospect of having to call Angelika's family. Finally, he'd
sucked up the intimidation and found a telephone kiosk in a random hotel's
lobby. Spike had relayed the news by rote, giving them little chance
to respond. He told them about the bombing and that she had wanted
them to know that they were in her thoughts. He'd hung up before he
could hear their tears.
Spike was angry that it had made him want to cry too.
A television above the bar was in the midst of a piped-in CNN newscast.
Couldn't escape them even halfway across the bloody world, it seemed.
The top story was the bombing, and Spike was torn between wanting to watch
and needing to shut his eyes and pretend it hadn't happened.
The latter won out, but he looked up at the telly when a man referred to
as the leader of the largest mosque in Cairo began a speech deploring the
bombing as an act of cowardice. Yeah, Spike thought, 'cowardice'
was right. The brave ones were the poor lot dying on the sidewalk
as the bombers ran away.
The announcer came back on and said that it was part of an escalating campaign
between Christian and Islamic extremists. That didn't surprise Spike.
It all came down to religion, in the end. People'd been fighting over
that for centuries, and they'd probably be fighting until the end of the
world. Spike thought it was a stupid reason for a war. Let people
believe whatever the hell they want. Let 'em hate, love, shag, ignore
whomever they bloody wanted to. It's when others got involved that
everything got fucked up.
After all, he thought with a grimace, that's what brought
me here, right?
The bloke on the stool next to him turned toward Spike. Great.
Company – just what he wanted.
"Are you American?" the guy asked.
Good question. "Uh, not really. I'm English, but I've been
living in California."
The man perked up. "I've been to Los Angeles. Is that where
you live?"
Live. Such a strange word for it. Still, nothing else really
fit, and Spike doubted the man would go for the whole vampire thing, no
matter how drunk he already was.
So he said, "Little town north of there, actually." He didn't feel
like adding the name.
The guy held out a hand. "I'm Aziz. Nice to meet you."
Spike stared at the hand, then shook it. "Spike. Likewise."
Aziz took a sip of his beer. "California women are very beautiful.
I fell in love with a young woman in Los Angeles."
"Yeah?" That piqued Spike's interest, just a bit.
"Her name was Katie. She was very perfect. We were both students
at the University of Southern California. I thought I would like to
marry her."
"What happened, mate?" Spike motioned to the barkeep for two more
Stellas.
The man's face clouded. "Her family and friends were very – how do
you say? -- conservative. They thought that I was a terrorist
or that I agreed with them. Katie said that it did not matter to her,
but I know it did. Although I hoped to stay there after university,
I finally had to leave. I did not want to stay if I could not be with
her."
Spike burst into harsh laughter fueled by alcohol. "Story of my life,
mate."
Aziz looked up with interest. "You too?"
"Yeah. Got my own bint back in bloody California." His voice
could cut glass as the anger rose. "She hates people like me.
Thinks I'm no better than them."
"She hates the English?"
Spike did a double-take. "Uh, right. Very prejudiced, she and
her friends are."
The beers arrived, and both men clicked bottles with a 'cheers'.
Two lovelorn, rejected comrades-in-arms. Communion can come in the
strangest places, Spike thought.
"It's never enough, right? Did everything I could to prove her wrong.
Turned my back on the whole evi – uh, English thing. Tried to show
her that I'm not a beast like all the others of my kind that she dusts."
Realizing his slip, he glanced over at Aziz, but the other man was too
immersed in his own beer.
"I understand," Aziz replied. "Prejudice is a very bad thing.
Katie's friends believed that all people in Egypt are terrible – like terrorists,
you know? Because I am Egyptian, they thought I must be bad too.
I try to tell them that my people are very peaceful and loving, but they
would not believe me. Katie said she did not care, but that was not
true. I did not want her to turn her back on her friends and her country,
so I broke up with her."
Spike chuckled. "Oh, my people are evil. I know that.
I was bad too, 'fore I met her. Still am, I suppose. But I turned
my back on my whole bloody existence and came to Africa so I could prove
to Buffy that I was worthy of her." He took a long sip of the beer.
"Trouble is, I don't think it will ever be enough for her and those sodding
friends of hers."
The two men were silent for several minutes, neither really paying attention
to the other's rant. But each was just the guy that the other needed:
someone who understood.
"Love is a terrible thing," Aziz finally said.
Spike sighed. "That it is, mate."
Half-stumbling, he walked around the city until daylight threatened.
Too many thoughts to sort out, and he got the feeling that if he went back
to the hotel and tried to sleep, the nightmares would make a grand re-appearance.
So he walked and walked, not really going anywhere in particular and hoping
that his innate sense of direction would let him find his way back.
As he passed through an intersection, he turned to look down the long street
at his left. It ended at the large plaza where the bomb had gone off.
From a distance, he could only register flashing lights, but Spike knew
that the police were still there, sorting through the mess.
Kind of like my life, he thought.
Then when he closed his eyes to chase away the afterimage of the lights,
all he could see was Angelika Marken's face when she told him to drink her
blood. Let me give you something, she'd asked, though
not in those words.
And Spike wondered if what he'd done really was wrong in the end.
She wanted it, didn't she? He gave her what she asked for, which was
a noble thing to do. Yet by doing so, he was invoking the demon.
She called him a "good vampire", but good vampires didn't drink from humans.
Right?
Since when was he even supposed to be a good vampire, damn it? He
got the soul for Buffy, so she'd finally take him back. Being good wasn't
meant to come with the package.
Spike pressed his hand against his face, trying to rub away the memory
of Angelika's eyes as the life passed out of them. Too much.
It was just too much.
He shuffled forward, almost wishing more people were out and about at 5:41
in the morning. Would've made him feel less alone, not that he had
much desire to talk to anyone. But the narrow streets, thick smoggy
air, and storefronts in a language he didn't understand all combined to give
him a sense of being outside of himself, as if he had been picked up and
dropped on another planet. He didn't think he liked it very much.
Travel wasn't new to him. Hell, he'd traipsed over half the world
with Drusilla, and Angelus and Darla before that. This was different,
though. Back then, the world was something to be conquered. Cutting
a swath across continents, and all that shit. Doing taste-tests with
Dru to see if the blood of a Russian really did taste different from the blood
of a Thai. Seeing just what they could get away with, not that they
ever gave much thought to any consequences.
In the space of eight short days, his world had become all about consequences.
He didn't think he liked that very much either.
Spike found another reason that Stella Beer was the best damn stuff in
the world: it chased away the nightmares. Sure, that could've
just been due to profound drunkenness; he knew that eight beers on an empty
stomach would do in even the hardiest vampire.
Whether it was the beer or exhaustion or just sheer will, Spike managed
to sleep through the day without remembering what he dreamt. The marks
of his fingernails on his chest and the puncture wounds of his fangs on
his lower lip were indication enough, but at least he had no memory of it.
When the first fingers of sunset began peeking through the curtains, he
shuffled over to the tiny bathroom and kept the lights off. Didn't want
a repeat of the mirror angst in Aswan. The soap was cheap but it did
the job, and he emerged fifteen minutes later scrubbed clean. Everything
felt lighter and fresh.
As he got dressed – he still had the god-awful khakis from Aswan, but they
were stuffed at the bottom of the backpack – he puffed up his chest and
slicked back his hair with his fingers. Almost felt like the Spike
of old, and that was a relief. Maybe the rest had done him some good.
The backpack made him swagger as he locked the door behind him and took
the stairs down to the lobby. The problem with vampire sleeping habits
was that he was stuck paying for an extra night, but he did some mental
math and determined that he still had a little over eleven grand on the
Visa. It'd last him for quite a while longer. Plus, something
good had come of the drinking last night: Aziz told him of a cousin
in Alexandria who was looking to buy a motorcycle.
Spike signed the charge receipt and headed out the front door, after getting
directions to Alexandria from the clerk. The bike was still where
he'd left it, lucky for him, and he headed out into the night.
In a century and change, Spike had seen every style of night there was
to see. His favorite was when the sky was overcast but not rainy,
when the city lights reflected off the clouds and cast the night in a hue
of platinum. The world was brighter on those nights, like it was glowing
from the power of a million candles flickering just behind the clouds.
Yeah, still a touch of the poet in me, he thought as he pushed
the bike so hard that it might fly apart underneath him.
He missed the clouds, the bright sky even in nighttime. He'd seen
eleven African nights so far, and while the surrounding scenery might change,
they were all cloudless. Pitch-black, but not quite. The moon
was brighter here with nothing to obscure it.
Egypt wasn't big on the green "Alexandria – 59 Miles" signs that he'd come
to miss about America. Mental math told him that he was still that
far away, and that it was around half-ten at night. Plenty of time
left to get there, do a couple of tasks that needed getting done, and then
wait for the boat to Greece that the hotel desk clerk in Cairo had told him
about.
Of all things, it reminded him of Texas. He remembered four years
ago, when he'd left Prague with Drusilla. Spent a week in the belly
of a cargo ship, hiding in the trunk whenever a seaman came down for inspections.
She'd been so highly-strung, even more than usual, and a dozen times he'd
had to knock her unconscious because the cries got to be too much.
When they'd finally disembarked in Savannah, they set a course along I-10,
off to see America by night. Only one destination in mind: Sunnydale,
where the hellmouth was going to restore color to her cheeks, right?
Things hadn't quite turned out as planned. They never did.
Texas. Nine hundred miles of interstate, stretching from pine trees
in the east to mesas in the west. The sky had been huge, from what
he'd seen out the windows. He'd rolled them down, letting the air whoosh
through the car. It had felt like he and Dru were the only ones on
earth. It had been the last sense of utter peace he would feel for
quite some time.
The road between Cairo and Alexandria felt like that tonight.
No car this time, just the wind whooshing around him and the sense of complete
solitude, like the whole world had vanished. He wasn't heading to
Sunnydale this time, though. Didn't know if he wished he were.
But the wind whipped color into his cheeks, even if it was technically impossible.
He could feel it there. The sky was black, the moon was bright, and
he felt something that was suspiciously like being alive.
Spike sped along the highway, each pothole and pebble jarring his bones.
Wouldn't let himself think about anything except mental math and the road
ahead of him.
The past week had taught him that introspection led to topics he didn't
much care to confront. Tonight he just wanted to exist.
Four hundred bucks for a motorcycle was a rip-off, but Spike was glad to
be rid of it. He almost saluted it as Aziz' cousin Hajj drove away.
The piece of junk had served him well, getting him from Kampala to Alexandria
without any technical difficulties.
Next up was a ferry to Greece tomorrow morning, so the bike wouldn't
be much use anymore. Luckily, Hajj had paid cash. Spike mentally
added another $600 to the kitty. He knew just what he was going to
do with it. Time to put that damned Suvolte payoff to its intended
use.
But oh, shit, this was going to be hard.
Best thing about Alexandria was the internet café open until two
in the morning. Second best thing was the ashtray next to the keyboard.
Use the right hand to type, left hand to hold the cig. Thank God he
wasn't in California anymore.
His first stop was westernunion.com. One afternoon while shooting
the shit in Clem's flat, he'd looked over the demon's shoulder while he wired
money to his mother in North Carolina. Clem had been in for some ribbing
for that, but Spike had to admire a guy who took care of his loved ones.
The process was simple enough. Spike set up an account, then jumped
through the hoops to wire a thousand bucks to Sunnydale, in the name of
Dawn Summers. The pre-paid Visa still had enough on it to handle the
deduction. Then he second-guessed the name thing. He thought
about changing it to Buffy's, until he remembered that the kid was far more
likely to take it than she ever would be. So, he clicked on the button
to finalize the transaction.
That was the easy part.
Spike needed fortification before doing the next thing. The café
was BYOB, though he suspected they meant booze, not blood. He took
a long swig of the blood-Stella cocktail in his flask, feeling it course
down each inch of his throat. It wasn't enough, but he'd faced far
worse in his time.
He logged on to his Yahoo e-mail account that Clem had set up on a lark
one afternoon. Took a good ten minutes to scroll through and delete
the spam, but he was surprised to find a message from Clem himself.
Opening it, he read slowly.
Hey
buddy!
What's up? I didn't know if you were going to be doing the e-mail
thing while you were gone, but I figure what the hey! I hope that
soul thing worked out for you, but then I guess that if you're reading this,
it did. Did the demon ask you to cut down a tree with a herring? Oh,
and if you see that Whistler guy, tell him that my cousin's doing better.
He finally stopped twitching, which is definitely an improvement.
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Spike chuckled; it eased the tension a bit.
It's been
kinda crazy around here. I think there was some wackiness with that
Willow girl, but nobody ever told me the details, and I don't think I want
to know anyway. I mean, yuck! Major creep factor. But
you'll be glad to know that the Slayer seems really happy these days.
I saw her hanging around your cemetery the other night, and she was all
smiles. It was weird, but hey, she's happy and you wanted her to be
happy, right?
So anyway. That's what's up here. See ya when you get back!!!
Clem
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Well. That deserved another cigarette and four more swigs of booze.
He was ten thousand miles away, and Buffy was happy. Let the self-flagellation
begin.
As the alcohol did its magic, he wondered if he could just go back to Uganda
and get the demon to get rid of the soul. Hell, if the slayer was
happier with him gone, then what the fuck did he need a soul for?
Better yet, why should he ever go back?
God. He thought this would be hard. It was a hundred times
worse.
Spike weighed his options: One, he could go down to the beach and
wait for the sunrise. The Mediterranean was gorgeous. Worse places
to die. Two, he could just keep going according to plan. Greece,
then maybe Berlin, and eventually back to California. Three, he could
haul ass back to Sunnydale, because oh God! He wanted to see her smile
again.
He let his head loll on his neck, his face tilted toward the ceiling.
The cigarette burned to ash between his fingers.
Keep going, he told himself. Just keep going.
Greece, it was.
When he picked up the flask, it was nearly empty. "Bloody hell,"
he muttered. He lit another cigarette; at least it gave him something
to do with his hands. Better that than remembering the feel of those
hands on her skin. He had to remind himself that option three was ridiculous.
Like hell was she going to just jump into his arms. If anything, she'd
probably stake him.
He really, really needed some more alcohol.
The clerk at the front desk gave the clock a pointed glance as Spike passed
her on the way out the front door. He just held up his credit card
and smirked; she'd get paid, so what was her problem? The walk to the
discotheque a block away didn't take long, and Spike was back with two longnecks
with another a half-hour left before the cyber café closed.
God, it tasted good, too good to even dilute with blood. He swirled
the chilled beer around his mouth before swallowing, and Spike could actually
feel it puffing him up, making the next thing he had to do much easier.
After clicking on the "reply" button, he deleted Clem's text and started
typing. He hadn't touched a keyboard in a while, but some things were
hard to forget.
I'm still in Africa.
Gonna be a while before I get back, so don't wait for me or anything.
Things are going just fine. Never better, in fact. Soul's just
window dressing.
Need you to do something for me, mate. When you get this, find Dawn
and tell her to go to the Western Union office on 14th Street. There's
something waiting for her. Make sure she gives it to Buffy.
If the Bit asks, DO NOT TELL HER WHERE IT CAME FROM! I mean it.
You do that, and your ass is gonna be pushing up daisies when I get back.
Just make up some story or whatever. I don't care. Buffy can
NOT know who sent the money. I value my life (well, what's left of
it) too much to tell her, and you'd better value yours enough to keep
mum.
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Spike read back over it. Maybe he came on too strong. He thought
about deleting, then he decided against it.
Look, it's just important
to me, okay? You do this for me, and there's another 200$ in it for
you when I get back. Maybe I'll even rustle you up some kittens.
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He thought about saying more, then decided
that was just about enough.
That's all for now.
Take care of my girls, mate.
Spike.
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He clicked on the "send" button before he could second-guess himself.
The distance between Alexandria and Sunnydale stretched through each nerve
in his body, and he felt a sudden loneliness.
Spike closed down the browser and stumbled to his feet, feeling the effects
of three beers and a bag of blood. Just a bit of a wobble as he walked
over to the clerk and paid the tab with some of the Egyptian cash left over
from selling the bike. She looked tired, and on a lark, he threw in
an extra twenty bucks or so. Made him feel better, at least.
It wasn't supposed to be his money, anyway. All of it was supposed
to be in a bank account in Sunnydale, making Buffy's life easier. And that's
where the leftovers would go when he got home.
As he walked down Alexandria's main drag, once again he had to force himself
not to even think about option three. Couldn't go home yet.
Still too much to sort through.
He took out the tourist map and deciphered it under the streetlamps.
The beach was only a few blocks away. He headed over there and looked
for a place to hide out until the 7 a.m. boat to Greece. Finding a
deep concrete overhang was easy enough, but he wasn't in a hibernation mood
yet.
A cool breeze skimmed off the sea. Moonlight and hotel lamps combined
to make the Mediterranean shimmer like an opal. He was drunk and borderline-broody,
but not too much to appreciate the beauty.
Strangely enough, it made him optimistic. Maybe everything would
work out in the end. Maybe all those Buffysmiles that Clem
mentioned weren't because of Spike being gone. Could be something
else altogether. He really hoped so. Girl needed some happiness
in her life.
Hope slithered down his spine and let him smile too. He'd sort things
through, then go home and do his penance to Buffy until she smiled back
at him. Then someday in the future, he'd bring her back here.
They'd do it in style, too. Get one of those really posh hotel rooms
behind him. Make love all day with the curtains closed, then sit here
on the beach and watch the opal sea. Maybe rent a car and go see the
pyramids or whatnot. Buy her one of those spangly belly dancer outfits
and let her shimmy and sway in a private dance for him alone, then peel
it off her and make her scream.
Yeah, she'd like Egypt.
He scooted back on the sand until he was out of the path of the sunrise
to come. Pulled the blanket over his head just in case, then continued
to stare out at the morning sea. The alcohol made him drowsy, but
he wasn't afraid anymore.
That night, there were no nightmares.
END, Chapter Five.
wisteria@smyrnacable.net
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