Thanks to Slashcat and Dave for their beta reading endeavours.
*****
"Taking Up The Slack" 1/3
Don Bentley
The large and colourful sign by the ornate wrought iron gates of the main entrance welcomed visitors into the "Sunnydale Memorial Gardens". An older age-worn limestone tablet set into the even older stone wall read simply "Sunnydale Necropolis".
Necropolis. The 'City of the Dead'.
The pleasant lawns inside the gates were known simply as the Gardens. Few mentioned the much larger much older grounds that lay farther in, beyond the stout hedge that separated the two. Certainly, the small staff concentrated their efforts on the Gardens and the hedge. They were well kept, bisected by manicured footpaths and narrow winding roadways, and dotted with small gardens and fountains. The visitor was struck by the orderly rows of modest shiny headstones, and the obvious care taken with the landscaping. Though it often took a moment's pause to realize that there was a near total absence of mature trees. There were a large number of saplings and young trees, but except for some older maples by the gate and a handful scattered around the grounds there were few mature trees. The end result was a very bright, open landscape.
Past the hedge, away from the cheer of the flowers and birds, and deep amongst close set and ancient trees, lay the old grounds. Treated, at best, to cursory care by the staff, the old grounds were a striking collection of headstones, family monuments, and a large number of mausoleums. The handful of Goths still living in Sunnydale would normally be expected to be in near constant attendance at some of the more over-the-top statuary depicting angels, saints, and assorted mythical beasts. All of which lay beneath a dank patina, a combination of mosses, the elements, and time that wore away at the stone, and would eventually wash away man's handiwork.
By day a small trickle of visitors ventured past the dividing hedge. The elderly tending to a family plot, or paying respects to the dearly departed. The researcher seeking out evidence of lives lived. The reluctant grounds keeper. None tarried long. Within the old grounds disturbing shapes lay half hid within shadows, disconcerting movement undulated 'neath the trees in even the stillest air, and silence, above all else there was that deafening silence. In even the dullest imagination these things served to foster a disquiet and unease that soon drove all away, compelling them to seek sanctuary among the light and noise outside.
By night....
Indeed, well before nightfall even the Gardens were evacuated and surrendered to the encroaching dark. Surrendered to those fears and nightmares that could be forgotten under the sun, and which were denied and ridiculed by rational beings. Nightfall, to these wise men and women of the 21st century, was but a temporary absence of the sun's light and heat, nothing more. Nothing existed by night that didn't also exist by day.
But in Sunnydale, with the going down of the sun, those nightmares woke, and they walked.
And they hunted.
*****
Atop the ruins of the Otterburn mausoleum a gargoyle kept watch.
Beside it a young man stood his own lonely vigil through the cold night. Waited for his own hunt to begin.
Clad in a black Goretex wind parka over an olive drab woolen sweater, fingerless leather gloves, black watch cap, dark gray cargo pants, and expensive cross trainers painted black he sheltered besides the gargoyle's bulk. From his post Xander scanned the cemetery grounds through a small oddly shaped monocular. It was a night vision sight. A product of the former Soviet Union, it ate batteries like candy, but it did let him see into the night. Like a bat.
With a sigh more physical than verbal, he switched off the night sight and slipped it back into its place on his waist, to a collection of pouches that hung off an army surplus belt, all painted matte black. He ruefully thought of it as his utility belt. The only thing missing was the cape and cowl.
2400 hours, he tested himself.
A glance at his watch. 2356.
Only four minutes off. Getting better.
Tonight was his fourth straight night of solo patrolling, and the night he was finally going to put himself to the test.
Three nights of recce patrols as he watched and learned, mostly from a number of places, observation posts, he had selected around the grounds. Last night he had gone so far as to risk moving about almost constantly, even daring to stalk a couple of vamps as they walked back to their nest in the old factory district that lay behind the cemetery. He had hated to let them go, doing so only because it was clear that they were returning to shelter ahead of the sun, and so there was no immediate need to take the risk inherent in two to one odds. Had he first found them heading into town, to feed, then his decision would have had to have been a different one. As it was he tracked them to their nest and marked it for future action.
He had studied the cemetery and learned its patterns, like a soldier planning to fight across a piece of ground. He had learned that though the vamps lived mostly in the old factory district they all seemed compelled to pass through the cemetery on their way into town. In sharp contrast to the expected demands of survival, evasion, and escape in a hostile environment, the vamps almost always stuck to the same routes and timings, with only the slightest variations. They made little effort to avoid detection or ambush.
He wondered if they felt the absence of the Slayer somehow.
One vamp, a loner Xander had dubbed Dick because of a slight resemblance to Richard Nixon, not only walked past the same grave site, but would pause for several moments each way. The obit photo certainly didn't do Kenneth McGraw, aged 67, devoted husband, beloved father and grandfather, any justice, but it was enough to give a real name to the vamp. Xander wasn't sure how he felt about that. How he felt about knowing the vamp's real name, or rather the one he had while alive. To be sure, he wasn't going to make a practice of finding out in the future. The rest of Sunnydale's present vampire population of 13, a long time low, was little different. Most appeared to be slaves to routine. The biggest exception was of course Spike and, and to a lesser extent, Harmony, both of whom had not been seen for a while. Not since.... Since the fembot and her idiot boyfriend hit town.
Despite himself Xander shot a quick glance into the new grounds.
Stay in the game, he ordered himself. Stay in the game.
Thirteen vamps, three pairs, including Harmony and Spike, a foursome he had taken to calling the Monkees as the taller one sported a knit cap like Michael Nesmith, and three loners. Tonight he would hunt down one, maybe two, vampires. He'd already selected the loners, the ones who had so obligingly cut themselves out of the herd. Tonight, if he were lucky, he would see if his efforts had paid off.
Months of training at the dojo, months of lies to his friends, and of half-truths to Anya. Months spent choosing his equipment, improvising what he couldn't buy, and cash spent in neighboring towns on equipment and weapons he could buy. Right now he was carrying enough gear, legal and illegal, to justify a lengthy jail term were he caught by the cops. Of course, in this town the cops were the least of his worries.
And then there were his dreams. They were the price, the real price he had to pay. The price he needed to pay.
Shifting slightly Xander took some weight off his left leg, and flexed his foot before it fell asleep. That'd be typical, he thought humourlessly, he'd leap into action only to fall over on a lame leg.
His movements were slow and deliberate, the eye being attracted to movement, especially at night. He had gone to great lengths to simulate invisibility. For instance, a scarf neatly stowed in a pocket would serve to cover his mouth and avoid telltale condensation when the temperatures dipped later in the night. He'd toyed with the idea of painting his face, like the commandos in the old war movies, but had had to balance tactical concealment with not sticking out like a sore thumb to any passing cop. Some things even they could not ignore. So no face paint, or cape.
Movement.
Middle distance. Over by the main entrance.
Approaching.
He brought the night sight to his left eye and thumbed the switch.
It took a moment for the green fog to resolve into two figures walking casually through the headstones. The sight's definition was not sufficient to discern much fine detail, but Xander didn't need much to recognize Willow and Tara.
Damn. His lies were betraying him now. He knew that eventually his friends would come out to check up on him, and, not finding him at his stated post would come looking here. He'd just wished that he had a couple more nights before being found out. Right now, he'd be happy with a couple of hours.
Xander started to inch back, intending to retreat behind the gargoyle and shrug off his jacket and belt before moving out to meet his friends. While he could easily justify the kit, it still made him feel a bit self-conscious. Like he was trying too hard.
?
Shit.
More movement.
This time over to his left in the old grounds, two vamps, the ones from last night, the ones he'd nicknamed Cornelius and Zira. They were moving left to right. Straight for Willow and Tara.
Here was his test.
Xander stood, moved to the edge of the mausoleum, and jumped, landing with a neat roll. He'd half hoped that his sudden movement would be seen by the vamps and either scare them off, or, more likely, draw them to him, either way away from the two women.
Nothing. They hadn't seen him.
In a half crouch, he ran lightly among the headstones, angling to intercept the vamps before they could reach the hedge. Before they could reach his friends.
Good. The two vamps only had eyes for their next meal. Neither reacted as Xander rounded the last headstone and sprinted the last twenty feet, his hand reaching for his-
Alerted by something, some instinct, or possibly just a knack for bad timing, the taller of the two vamps, Cornelius, looked back, and saw Xander as he drew his weapon, a spring-loaded nightstick called an ASP.
With a growl of warning to his partner, the vamp turned to face this new prey, his demon visage already in place. A quick snack off this idiot hero, he thought, then a more leisurely time with the two women.
A feral grimace split the vamp's face as the pathetic little man slipped and fell on the damp grass almost at his feet. Two paces, one broken neck, and-
The vamp died even as he reached his erstwhile prey, impaled on the spring driven oak doweling that speared his heart.
Before bursting into dust the vamp saw his own cruel smile mirrored on his slayer's face.
Rolling out from under the dust, Xander kicked himself up into a crouch, looking for the second vamp. Spotting him even as he vaulted the hedge, now within reach of-
At a dead run, Xander dived over the hedge and came out of his landing
behind the vamp. Letting his momentum carry him forward and down,
Xander braced himself on his hands and left leg, and kicked hard with his
right, a wide sweeping kick that took the vamp's legs out from under him.
Xander leapt, a stake flashing in the pale moonlight as he stabbed
down into the vamp's back. With a silent 'poof' Zira joined his friend.
Unexpectedly winded, as much emotionally as physically, Xander straightened up out of his crouch and turned to face his friends. He struggled to keep his triumph from showing on his face. Two for two, a pair of vamps, and on his first night of real patrolling. It was far better than he'd dared hoped for. Good enough to finally be of some help to Buffy, to really help for a change. It had been a good night's work.
Willow and Tara just stood there, staring at him. Tara gave him a smile and wink. He hadn't thought that he had fooled her.
Willow stood shock still for a beat before stepping forward and slapping him hard across the face. Her voice quivered with fear and rage as she shouted at him.
"ARE YOU TRYING TO GET YOURSELF KILLED?"
*****