CrossingShadowRiver 2
Spike decides to go north. Not because there's still magic up there, because he wouldn't know about it if there was, but for vague reasons like they might still speak English in Oregon and it might still be green up there. He'd like to see some green again before he dies.
South would mean even hotter weather and speaking Spanish. His Spanish is rusty and hasn't survived the Shanshu, much like his demon languages and his detailed, fresh-as-yesterday's vampire memories. He sometimes wonders if it's an intended blessing about the memories. Nobody bothered to inform him about the details of the Shanshu before he got it. Maybe nobody knew, not even Wesley or Angel themselves. They wouldn't have had time to tell him about it in either case when they were fighting their last fight in that alley. It'll be weird being in a place where it hasn't stopped raining in honor of their memories.
East is desert. He can't remember exactly how much, but he wouldn't be able to cross it before he died of thirst, he's pretty sure.
West is water. Japan, if he and his boat got that far. He doesn't think Japan fared any better than his neck of the rubble, but wouldn't it be nice to arrive in Tokyo and find that the subways were still rolling and the lights on the Ginza still blinking? He used to rave about sushi and sashimi, back in the days, but ten years of eating fish has lessened the appeal considerably. The other things he used to eat besides these delicacies are mercifully vague.
Spike dries his catches of fish in the sun and tries to talk and barter and service his way to some bread and bottles to carry beer in. He can't explain the urgency he feels. Of course he'd like to find Buffy sooner rather than later, but he knows his chances are practically nonexistent anyway. He's going to die trying is all. Having a goal, however unattainable, makes him feel alive. He's sharper and enjoys the grudging ration of beauty in his life more than ever before. There goes his last sunset, an orgy of reds and purples. There's his last moonrise, laying down a shimmering path for his soul to walk on. He won't be back here.
He leaves when the first glimpse of dawn grays the sky and gives the dry air its only brief hint of freshness and moisture all day. He doesn't look back.
The first leg of the journey is familiar, although he hasn't been up this way in years. The farthest he got was two days out, and he nearly died on the way back. He's not going to have take time now to search for wells or plunder or look for other survivors, like the last time. He just wants to make it a good distance each day.
At the end of the first day, he's still walking among rubble and other ruined cityscape. LA was such a giant monster of a city. He'll be happy to get past Malibu tomorrow. The road reminds him of the Little Prince. Instead of an elephant, the snake has swallowed a freight train, and it put up a hell of a fight. Twisted black tarmac rears high above his head, turning in on itself and swallowing its own tail. Cars and trucks lie where they have fallen.
He averts his eyes from the skeletons. Angel and the others died trying to save this world, and strictly speaking so did he. For the, what, fourth time? He should be happy about what he's accomplished in his long life, falling so deep so long ago, returning from that triumphantly into full forgiveness. All his sins washed from his soul, nothing more than black and white memories that don't keep him awake at night. Of course, that might also mean part of what made him Spike was washed away with them. Sometimes he suspects he's not the man he was, even on the inside.
He squares his shoulders, shifts the heavy pack and walks on an hour past his comfort zone. He's paying for it already with blisters and pains in his knees and hips. He searches out a sheltered spot and makes camp. A grand word for spreading out his blanket and eating cold fish. Making a fire can't be risked. Even in this magic-poor place, strange beasties crawl and slither about at night, and lately there have been reports of big cats and coyotes returning.
Spike looks up at the sky, waiting for his muscles and spine to unkink so he can sleep. Too bad there are so few stars left. How is that possible? Aren't stars far away from the Earth? He doesn't know how the apocalypse destroyed the world, or how it influenced the workings of the universe, but it's mighty strange all the same. Is Buffy looking up at the sky in Rome right now, or wherever she came from? He pictures her standing in slanted golden light in a blue dress, her face tilted to the heavens, her stomach softly rounded and shielded by her hands.
Yeah, right. Crouching on a bed, more likely, being roughly ridden by the Undead Usurper. He turns over, and then back again because that is even more uncomfortable. If she sees what odds he has braved, what chasms he has crossed to claim her she'll welcome him. He's a former Champion, he can do this. He can dream.
Their child would be a curly headed replica of Buffy, holding out her arms to be lifted up, smiling trustingly, being comforted after a fall. He'd be healed of whatever ails him, they could live together in a cottage, there could be more children. There would be love and affection and gentleness. A life in the sun of a gentler, moister climate, growing old together. These are new dreams to him, he's never allowed himself to have them before, but now they seem almost within reach, if he can just…surmount a few insurmountable obstacles first.
He can barely stand the next morning, his legs are that stiff and painful, and his back is killing him as usual. He tells himself he'll limber up from the walking and sets off at once, chewing his unappetizing breakfast on the go. A lonely bird circles over his head a few times before it wings off. He must look like a scuttling crab from up there, all painful jerky movements, bent over under his backpack.
Day three. Now he wishes his pack had been heavier, because the lighter load means he's almost out of water. It can't end like this, can it? Champion dies of thirst within a week of setting out on his quest? That wouldn't be fair. Stories never end that way.
He clambers up a hill of rubble that is slightly higher than the other rubble heaps. The original gray of the concrete is bleached and powdery, as if the essence of concreteness has been leeched out of it. The apocalypse has killed even concrete, he guesses. His efforts don't actually get him a good view of where he's going. Or rather, the view's not bad, it's just that there's only more ruined buildings and randomly snaking roads. If he looks to the right there's a landmark, a great big black crater. He wonders what came down there. Isn't that more or less in the direction of Sunnydale? He ponders this for a few moments. Sunnydale had a Hellmouth, which meant it was a hotbed for magic and evil creatures. Mightn't it make more sense if he tried to strike out for his old hunting grounds instead of vague dreams of green cool forests?
Spike turns away. No. Without her, Sunnydale holds nothing for him. He trudges on in his agonizingly slow tempo. When his shadow lengthens, he looks at the sunset again. It looks exactly the same as it did from his shack, which is a bit of a downer. Traveling is really slow when you have to do it on foot.
There's a weird feeling on the back of his neck, like he's being watched, but he hasn't heard or seen a living creature bigger than a lizard all day. He even thought of trying to eat it, but it was too fast for him. There's not much he can do about the spooky feeling. If there's anything out to get him, there's nowhere to run, even if he could. He is of course the darkest, most colorful thing against all the pale sun-bleached rubble. Vultures and other flying predators could easily find him.
He finds a spot against what's left of an old wall that might at least guard his back. Jagged blocks of concrete lie around in a half-circle, broken side up, like buildings dropped from a great height, and form a natural arena. He curls up uneasily. There's no moon yet. He lies there in the unrelieved darkness and listens for anything amiss. Nothing. He can't sleep, nevertheless, and manages to light a fire with his few emergency sticks of wood. He might be able to use them to drive away the predators.
When they come, it's from a direction he wasn't expecting. Three forms drop down silently from atop the wall at his back. He chokes on his own surprised shout and they're on him so fast he has no time to grab the burning wood or even lift up his arms to protect his neck. The fire throws weird elongated shadows on the ruined building. They look like vampires, scary ugly creatures with bumpy faces, fanged mouths that slaver and lisp at him. They are a lopsided lot, none of the three has all his limbs or features intact, each of them is missing something. Tribal ritual? It's funny how much detail you can still see when you're being drained from three points on your body simultaneously. He suddenly remembers how much Angelus hated that, sharing his victims, and that he only did it once when it was the only victim they'd found all week. He hasn't remembered the old times that clearly in a decade.
The yellow eyes glow at Spike and it's as if they're giving off heat, he feels toasty and comfortable all around, like lying in a warm bath of Buffy loving, slack and replete. There's pain, but it's far away.
He should act. Stake them. Burn them, but he can't even lift his arms. His quest has failed. He'll never see Buffy again, or their child. He can't accept that. There's one option open, one road he thought he'd never have to take again. He turns his head and bites hard into the salty, leathery skin against his mouth.
TBC