 Post Apocalyptic : AtS, angst, armageddon |
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by Liz Barr Jan 2002
Summary: in the end, it's not the demons. Feedback: yes thanks. elizabeth_barr@yahoo.com.au
A bomb shelter. A grade-A, genuine, Cold War era frigging bomb shelter. In some part of his brain, he knew it made sense. The era the hotel had been active, the region, the fact that they had the Powers looking out for them (or so they liked to delude themselves, although he was having serious doubts right about now). In some other part of Wesley's brain, nothing was making sense at all. The baby was crying. "Will this thing actually protect us from ... anything?" Cordelia asked. "Oh no," said Fred cheerfully. "Really, these old shelters couldn't keep a stray electron out. It's purely psychological, not that psychology is really effective protection from nuclear attack, although maybe preventing an attack--" "Fred," said Gunn, "shut up." "Oh. Sorry." The baby was crying. Wesley stood up. "I'm going to put up some wards around the shelter. A little magic can't hurt our chances." "Magic versus silence," said Cordelia. "Willow'd have fun. If she weren't psycho witch girl, that is. Hey, you reckon she caused this somehow? I mean, Sunnydale, Hellmouth, powerful witch girl--" "Cordelia..." She looked up, her eyes shadowed. She'd had twelve visions in the last week; none had realted to nuclear attack. This wasn't Angel's fight. Wherever Angel was. "What?" she asked. Wesley realised that he was staring. For a minute, he wanted to say, You know you're my friend, you know I'd die for you, you know, you know... Then the fear and anger and noise penetrated his brain, and he said, "For God's sake, make that fucking baby shut up, would you?" The baby was crying, and they were staring at him. "Sorry," he said. He was lying. Don't know what came over me." Nice lies, safe lies. Normal lies. And how is your garden, Mr Riddle? And have you stopped beating your wife? "I'll take the baby," said Fred. Wife-beaters, drug-dealers, vampire cultists ... these were the things that had filled their days while the world ticked down to Doomsday. In the end, they couldn’t make a difference. In the end, it was the humans, not the demons that destroyed the world. In the end, in the end... In the end, it had come down to the men in suits, negotiating, writing and signing treaties, and in the end, it came down to the men who lost something in the inevitable compromise, and in the end, it came down to the arms dealers who sold the old Russian weapons, and the money launderers who helped complete the transaction, and surely, somewhere, it came down to the man who'd given the order? He had to believe that someone had given an order. At least we had a warning, he thought. There'd been no warning for Britain. There'd been no answer when he tried to call his parents, when they'd tried to reach Giles. In the end, there was nothing to do but wait. Heroes? Hardly that. In the end, they were as lost as they world they'd tried to save. He thought of Cordelia: "We help the helpless." No, he corrected mentally, we wait to die with the rest of the rats. But the cockroaches will live, they always survive, and maybe there'll be new Champions to fight them in our place. He laughed, not caring that they were staring at him. In the end, they could only laugh
as they waited to die.
end Copyright © 2001 Elizabeth M.
Barr
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