Disclaimer: "OH GOD! PLEASE STOP HIM!" He's on the other side of the door. I can feel his presence through the thin wood. He grunts, then an axe thrusts through the closed door, wood splintering everywhere. "Heeeere's Johnny!" he screams, peaking through the hole. Backing away, he begins to chop through the door. As I start to frantically cry, I look at the knife in my clenched fist. I know what I have to do, to protect my son and myself. But it means something dreadful. "Joss Whedon, honey," I plead, "Please put the axe down! I'm sorry that I wrote a story using your characters from Buffy the Vampire Slayer, and I'm sorry that I started writing a sucky sequel! I won't do it ever EVER again!" The chopping stops and my hopes rise. "Sorry babe," he says, "But you have to learn a lesson."

Rating: R- once again, I go into the world of the unclean

Summary: Sequel to "Exit Stage Left". The Scoobies and their children battle against an impending apocalypse, their own demons, and an uncertain future.

Author's Notes: Back again! Holy shit in hell! How y'all doin'? I had a sudden inspiration for the story and typed out this chapter. I gave you all a week to rest up from my last story. I didn't want to write my little ficlet (shows how much conviction I have). Here's a bit of warning for this story: Read the first story before you embark in THIS twisted tale. We're gonna be meeting some old characters, from the show and from my last story. There might possibly be some major character death. And a whole lotta blood, sex, cursing, and military talk. I don't know anything about the US army or such; it's what I pick up from the movies I watch. Please R & R. Tell me what you think about it. Remember, it's all for you. Love Lily-bug.

PS: For all you newbies, I like stealing shit from pop culture and using it in my disclaimers. The one above is from a great horror movie, The Shining. Not The Shinning, the Shining. Jack Nicolson (bad spelling) is one bad- assed motherfucker! Well, not as good as Kevin Smith, but close enough.











Chapter One- It Starts

Five million people lived in the city of Los Angeles. Each one of them had a story to tell, from the janitor at the bus depot, to the creative consultant of Morrison Advertising. They worked, slept, ate, fucked, bought clothes, and went about their lives. If you listened hard enough, you could hear the electric current they gave off. Even at 3:00 in the morning. An observer looking through an open window could watch the city, and long for that sense of purpose its inhabitants felt.

Sighing inwardly, Angel turned away from his window. It was simply too much to feel that longing. Sure, he would live significantly longer than the entire population out there, but every once in a while, he wanted to be a part of it. Part of the human world. And whenever he felt this way, he found it best to throw himself in his work, to forget.

A thick file sat on his desk. No doubt, another weird mystery that needed to be solved. Rolling his eyes, he picked it up, indifferently flipping through the pages. It got boring. Fast.

Quickly shutting the file, Angel plopped his legs on top of his desk. Folding his arms across his chest, he leaned back in his chair. The street light from below shone through his office, creating ambiguous shadows on the walls.

*It's late, I'm hungry, and I'm bored.*

Deciding to get back on task, he grabbed the file and began to read it. Skimming the police report, he was interrupted by a knock.

Someone at the door.

Sitting up, Angel put the file down. "Come in," he replied, trying hard to disguise the boredom he felt.

As the large plywood door slowly swung open, Angel felt the blood drain from his face.

"Oh, God . . ."



It was only nine in the morning, but the bright sun had already started its daily task of baking the earth. Months ago, it was a lush green plain. But, the dry season started, and turned the ground to a barren wasteland of dust.

Placing her Gucci glasses on the bridge of her nose, Jennifer Walsh opened the helicopter door and jumped onto the plain. The parched ground cracked as she began to walk to the scene.

Forty-eight hours earlier, she had been preparing to dive into her feather bed for a long-needed sleep. But a call from her bosses at the Pentagon changed that. Putting her on the next available transport to the Serengeti Plain in Africa, they gave her strict orders: Examine the village, take as many notes as possible, and report back immediately. And under no circumstances was she to discuss this with any non-military personnel.

Walsh headed towards a large work tent set to protect the investigators from the harsh sun. As she approached, a tall man wearing a T-shirt and khaki shorts spotted her and quickly jogged over to meet her.

"How'd ya do?" he slurred out in a thick Kentucky accent, "Name's Major Eddie Keldon, Overseas Division, United States Military."

"Jennifer Walsh, Director of Special Interests, Pentagon," she roboticly spewed out, lightly shaking the bearded man's sweaty hand.

"Well, guess you're here to see 'em, huh?" With a condescending grin, he began to walk to the group of huts diagonally across from the work tent. The scene of interest.

Reaching into her sack, she pulled out a large camera. "Tell me everything leading up to this moment," the woman ordered, pushing her light brown hair out of her face.

Major Keldon sighed. "Two days ago, I was running drills out here with my men. One of the captains stopped the drill when he spotted something in the camp. I went over to investigate, then called my commanders to explain what I had seen. They said to set up a temporary headquarters and wait for the big guns to come in." Lightly slapping her on the shoulder, he heartily laughed. "Guess that's you."

About to retort disgustedly, Walsh was stopped when she entered the camp.

It was a small village inhabited by the natives, the huts made of plain grasses. Dishes sat in the sun, containing the forgotten meal. Simple toys the children played with were scattered through the area. Laundry still hung out to dry.

But Walsh did not pay attention to the signs of life interrupted. Her focus was on the sea of two hundred bodies lying on the hot sun. The dead native people. Adults, women, children.

"Look at this!" Walsh ran to an older woman, still holding the ladle to her cooking pot. "Whatever had happened to these people happened instantaneously! There's no sign of disturbance, of trauma!" Holding the Nikon camera to her eye, she made repeated pictures of the woman, then moved on to the bodies surrounding her.

Kneeling near the body of a six-year-old boy, Walsh took seven photos. "I don't understand," she mumbled to herself, "Why would the government want to know . . ."

She stopped.

Something was carved into the boy's right hand.

Walsh picked up the corpse's hand. It was beginning to rot under the hot sun, but she ignored whatever feelings of revulsion that surface.

It was a mark. Possibly made with a knife, or another sharp object. A line ran the length of his palm, while another criss-crossed through it. There was no blood, so it was made after the death.

Reaching across to the next corpse, she examined its hand. There was an identical mark.

Every single body had the mark on its right hand.

"Shit!" Walsh got out her satellite phone. As she dialed her boss's number, she addressed Major Keldon. "I want all your men to record the positions of the bodies. Record where they lay retrospectively to each other, and how far away. What direction are they facing, are there any additional marks?" Motioning for him to move in closer, she whispered, "As soon as you have all the facts, bag the bodies and send them to the Pentagon. Then burn the village and anything around it for a two-mile radius."

Someone began to speak on her phone. "It's Walsh," she said to the secretary, "Tell Pitts that it's urgent."



Secretary of Defense Andrew Pitts hurriedly walked through the White House hallway. Portraits of dead Presidents glared down as the balding man rushed to the Cabinet meeting. Walsh's call yesterday had set him off track, and her arrival minutes ago had him completely confused.

Walsh ran behind him, rolling her hair into a quick bun. As soon as she set foot on the ground, she ran to the bathroom to change and freshen up. It wasn't every day that a younger member got to enter a Cabinet meeting.

"Got everything ready?" he asked.

"Rrry. Mf gof ering," she mumbled, files clenched in her mouth as she clipped a watch on her wrist, her black briefcase tucked under one arm.

Slowing so they walked side by side, Pitts eyed her. "Don't worry about anything. Just tell them the facts and what you recommend we do. Be prepared to field a few questions. And don't be nervous."

"Yeah right," Walsh laughed, "There's absolutely nothing to be worried about."

A guard armed with a pistol stood by the double doors. Quickly glancing at the passes, he opened the doors.

All the members of the president's Cabinet were seated, discussing the possible reasons why Pitts had called this urgent meeting. Eyes turned to the doors as Pitts and Walsh entered the room. It must have been a sight: a 63-year-old ex-Marine and a 24-year-old Westpoint dropout.

Preparing to speak, Pitts stopped when the doors behind him opened. President Daniel Fielding, followed by three secret service officials, swept into the room.

"Sit down, sit down," he grumbled as the Cabinet members rose. Plopping down into his larger chair, he slammed his hands on the table. "So what's so important Andrew? What's so important that I might possibly miss Monday Night Football?"

Raising his hands, Pitts shook his head. "All the explaining will be done by her." He turned and beaconded Walsh to step forward. "This is Jennifer Walsh, Director of Special Interests at the Pentagon." Giving her a quick smile of reassurance, he took his seat.

Swallowing uneasily, Walsh looked down at her notes. "About three days ago, Military forces in the Serengeti of Africa came across a village." Placing a reel of slides into the nearby projector, she signaled for the lights to be dimmed. The picture of the village flashed onto the wall. "A Major was sent to investigate, and came across this," she clicked the controller, and the photo of the victims came up, "The bodies of the inhabitants, all of whom apparently died at the same time." Clicking again, the projector now showed the picture of the mark. "Further investigation found this, a symbol carved into the right hand of the corpses. Every single one." Raising her hand, the lights came back on.

Glancing around the room, the Cabinet members exchanged confused looks.

"Excuse me, Miss Walsh," the President spoke up, "Could you please explain to me what this has to do with the United States? A ritualistic suicide in Africa."

In agreement, the Secretary of Treasury nodded her head. "Yes. And, if you don't mind me asking, what exactly does your title mean, Miss Walsh?"

As she nervously looked at Pitts, Walsh bit her lip. "Mr. President, Members of the Cabinet," she announced, clearing her throat, "I guess it's my duty to tell you that the world isn't what it seems. Your parents' lied when they told you nothing exists that goes 'bump' in the night. Creatures, of unimaginable power and evil, roam the earth. Remember all those things from monster movies: vampires, werewolves, demons? They exist." Holding in a laugh as their mouths dropped open, she continued. "The Department of Special Interests was set up about twenty years ago to monitor the activities of these creatures, in case they became a threat to the State."

Shifting his stare to Pitts, the President stared. "You mean to tell me this administration has been funding a group that keeps its eye on the Bogeyman?"

Before he could respond, Walsh spoke up. "Mr. President, I know it sounds ridiculous, but it's completely true. Remember the Philadelphia massacre three years ago? It was a gang of rogue vampires, not a crowd homicide. These things exist, and it's my duty to keep the monsters in line."

No one said a word as the President placed his chin in his hands. "Alright," he sighed, "Let me ignore my initial reactions of shock and denial. Again, what does this have to do with the United States?"

Reaching into her briefcase, Walsh pulled out a leather-bound book. "In 1832, a prophet by the name of Josiah Drew wrote this manuscript, 'Timeline of the World'. In it, he contains many predictions of the future, all of them dealing with the United States, and all of the prophecies proving truthful. He accurately predicts the Civil War, Pearl Harbor, television, Vietnam, September 11th, and so on. The prophecies are obviously vague, until the event happens. Except for the last entry." Opening the book, she handed it to the President.

With a worried glance, he pulled out his reading glasses. "It says," he recited, " 'Two hundred unknown sacrifices needed, and gained. And on the final ground, the valley of the Sol, the Horsemen of Sin will unite. Their utensil, a seedling, lies in the valley. And with their joining, the Armies of Darkness will arise and consume. Life to nothingness to silence.' ". He stopped, flipping through the pages. "There's nothing more, just a drawing."

Holding the book up, he showed it to his Cabinet. It was a sketch of the mark, a long line with a crude lightning bolt running through it.

"What is that?" asked the Secretary of the Treasury.

"The symbol of the Horsemen of Sin," whispered Walsh. "We've been analyzing that excerpt for years, only to come to the same conclusion: it's the Apocalypse." Rubbing her forehead, she took a seat. " 'Two hundred unknown', or foreign, 'sacrifices needed'. And they've gotten their sacrifices. Let us all know by leaving their symbol behind."

"Where's the valley of Sol?" asked President Fielding.

"Umm," answered Pitts, "Five years ago, we attempted to locate this place. An interpretation of this title means 'valley of the Sun'. We believe it is a small suburb in California called Sunnydale."

Placing his hands on top of his head, the President stood. "So, we go to this Sunnydale with a few hundred divisions of Marines, and wait for these Horsemen."

Walsh shook her head. "It's not that simple, sir. These Horsemen probably have powers we couldn't match. The entire armed forces of the US might not be able to defeat the Horsemen."

"So what do we do?"

"Well," sighed the younger woman, pulling two small files from her briefcase; "There is something we can do. But, it means involving civilians. Quite a few, possibly."

Sitting down, President Fielding sighed. "What is it?"

"We'd have to call upon a mystical warrior."

"Who is this guy?"

"Girl," interrupted Walsh, "A woman. Called the Slayer."