Night of the Living Rerun

by Arthur Byron Cover

  Having had enough of short cuts and underpopulated parts of Sunnydale for the evening, she stuck to the main road. The post office was about a mile away on the other side of the interstate. She could make it in less than ten minutes if she trotted at a not-too-arduous pace.

  But she never made it as far as the interstate, much less to the post office. Next to the underpass was a popular truck stop called Billy Bob’s Steak House, famous for having, as its slogan said, “the fastest food in the West.” But hardly ever in the way Billy Bob intended, Xander was fond of saying.

  Even so, in the storm the Steak House’s neon lights promised both change and temporary shelter. She wondered how much they charged for a cup of coffee.

  Buffy had never eaten there—it didn’t exactly cater to the social ambitions of high school students—but judging from how packed the parking lot was, the food must be popular with people passing through town. Especially truckers—for several semis, some with their engines still running so the drivers wouldn’t have to waste time warming them up, sat in the largest wing of the parking lot.

  Another wing was filled with approximately forty less specialized vehicles, plus about ten motorcycles belonging to members of a local club. Buffy slowed, forgetting for the moment she was in the middle of a thunderstorm, when she noticed a familiar Hummer. The Churches’ Hummer.

  Parked right beside it was the van with the raining frogs logo painted on the side. The Churches and the crew of Charles Fort’s Peculiar World were evidently having a bite to eat here.

  Buffy scowled. Could it be that Cotton Mather, in the body of Darryl MacGovern, and with a certain purloined statue fashioned from moonrock in tow, was sampling modern cuisine in the company of Judge Danforth, Sheriff Corwin and Heather Putnam?

  That dollar was more important than ever now. Buffy had to contact Willow at the library and find out if she could confirm that the showdown was fated to happen here, at a country steak house.

  She sneezed. Suddenly Buffy saw her own future, all by herself: she was going to spend the next three or four days in bed, nursing a cold of Olympian proportions. If she lived through tonight, that is.

  She looked through the Hummer’s windows. She saw an unfolded map of Stonehenge in the back seat, lying right next to one of the gallery’s notebooks with a picture of V.V. Vivaldi’s Moonman statue on the cover.

  Buffy moved to the van and looked through the rear window, where she saw something definitely exceptional: the cameraman and the soundman sitting in the back trussed up like turkeys, gagged, blindfolded and lying amid their scattered equipment. It was easy to see what had happened, even if they, as Buffy suspected, did not. Possessed by one of the loose spirits, Eric Frank had overcome them.

  And had gone inside. Every sense Buffy had rang like a bell. This was it. Everything was going to happen again. The manipulator of events was going to rise, just as the Despised One had attempted three hundred years ago. Truly a case of a living rerun.

  Only people usually know in advance how a rerun turns out,’ Buffy thought. But not tonight. Tonight it’s going to be him or me, but not both!

  * * *

  Buffy grimaced. She took off her raincoat, wrapped it around her fist and pulled back, aiming for the window. She knew she had no choice but to start the festivities by freeing the crew.

  Or maybe she did have a choice. Sure, she was obligated to free them, but nothing in the prophecy said anything about people standing around taking pictures.

  She could free them later.

  Good. The less distractions, the better. Looked like the crowd was up to capacity inside, which amounted to approximately one hundred and fifty other distractions.

  Billy Bob’s was boomerang-shaped, like an urban bus stop, but with one wing, that of the restaurant itself, vastly lengthened. That wing had three long, wide picture windows providing Buffy with a pretty good view of the layout despite the distance between them. There were booths, all filled, at the windows, a long bar at the rear where the truckers ate and round, wooden tables in between. Part of the kitchen extended into the wing, and the chefs handed the busy waitresses their meals through a large portal.

  Neither Frank nor the Churches were in view and neither were, come to think of it, Darryl MacGovern and the Moonman. But not all booths were visible. They undoubtedly sat in one of those.

  She couldn’t help noticing the portions were huge. Her mouth watered at the odors that not even the storm could wash away. She made a mental note to have lunch at this place after it was rebuilt.

  Glancing at the short wing, which comprised a huge filling station and some facilities the truckers could use to tune up their vehicles, Buffy marched for the front doors. She kept a lookout for stray zombies on the way. Those creatures had been as singleminded as it was possible for a dead organism to be.

  She slowed down as she stepped under an awning—at last, relief from the rain!—and assumed the demeanor of a distressed girl who’d been caught in the storm. She wrung out her hair, but since she was soaked from head to toe, that hardly made a dent in her overall dampness.

  She walked to the swinging doors and was about to push one open when someone on the other side opened it before she did.

  “Honey, are you okay?” drawled a waitress with a pile of red hair that reached out to Jupiter. She wore a canary yellow uniform, and had clearly been on her way outside for a cigarette break. “I didn’t see you coming.”

  “That’s all right,” said Buffy cheerfully, but still acting distressed. “I didn’t see you either.”

  “Honey, what happened to you?” the waitress asked.

  “You know. Bicycle. Rain. The Weather Channel.”

  “That’s a shame, honey.”

  “Is there a place where I can dry off?”

  “Better than that, there’s a place where we can put you in a waitress uniform while your clothes dry. How’s that?”

  Buffy grinned. “Perfect.”

  The waitress’s name turned out to be Edith. She took Buffy to a dressing room to the side of the kitchen opposite the serving portal. There the waitresses changed in and out of their “civvies.” While the uniforms were perfectly presentable to the general public, they had a certain tackiness that made the waitresses want to wear them in the world beyond Billy Bob’s as little as possible.

  Buffy understood how they felt the moment she put on one of the uniforms. The big white apron with its cartoonishly large bows on the back made her feel like she was dressed like a doll at a costume party. The fact that the yellow uniform’s “small” size was still too large for her made the feeling worse.

  And don’t even talk to me about the hairnet. Way not!

  But at least wearing the uniform might allow her to snoop around without being noticed. Furthermore, she had to make another call. After throwing her clothes in the washing machine with a bunch of clothes that looked as filthy as anything she’d seen in the sewer, she made change with the lady at the cash register and went to the public phones near the front door.

  She still couldn’t see in all the booths. Whoever was in the booth all the way to the end of the wing was in Edith’s territory, and they seemed to be demanding a lot of attention from her. Buffy wondered what she could say to Edith that would make sense and would induce her to split this scene as quickly as possible.

  Well, she’d think of something. First, she had to “phone home.”

  “Willow! What do you have for me?”

  “Nothing!” came the slightly desperate reply. “What do you have for me?”

  “I’m going to treat you to a steak after all this is over!” said Buffy.

  “Why? Save it for the vampires.” Her voice was distant and distracted on the other end of the line.

  “No, no, I mean steak as in Billy Bob’s Country Steak House. That’s where I am, and I have to tell you, I’m coming back when I have time to eat. Anyway, I think MacGovern and the three missing souls are seriously chowing down here, but I haven’t seen them yet. E
ven so, this is where the prophecy’s going to go down. I can feel it. Did you say you haven’t found out anything?”

  “Yeah sorry, Buffy, but I’ve been in every techno-pagan chat room I can think of, and no one has any info remotely helpful.”

  “Figures, there’s never a good voodoo priestess around when you need one. How’s Giles?”

  “Sick as a dog. He’s got an icepack on his head and his feet in a bucket of ice, but his temperature is bad. I may have to call an ambulance!”

  “Any word from Xander?”

  “He hasn’t come back. I bet he finds you first.” “Right. I’ll check in as soon as the fun’s over. Ciao!”

  Suddenly someone opened both the swinging front doors smack into her.

  I’ve gotta work on this in-and-out thing, she thought, then stopped cold.

  Xander.

  But that was just her first impression. A closer look, focusing on his posture, revealed that Sarah had asserted herself and was definitely in control of Xander’s body. Unused to walking in the body of a man, “she” stood and walked stiffly, very unlike Xander’s normal gait, as if he had become a female mannequin.

  Luckily, Xander/Sarah did not recognize Buffy. The seventeenth-century witch might have known her as a participant in the séance, but the waitress outfit was an effective distraction.

  But while Xander, to whatever degree he might have been self-aware, was no doubt concerned about Buffy’s safety, Sarah clearly had other people on her mind. He/she strode purposefully down the steak house, weaving among the crowded tables.

  Xander/Sarah stopped at the furthermost booth. She said something in an agitated manner, gesturing with an air suggesting that it had taken a lot of nerve.

  The something must have been shocking, judging from how everyone in the immediate vicinity grew quiet and looked at Xander/Sarah as if he was a crazy person.

  Buffy recognized that things were clearly coming to a head. Xander/Sarah backed up; the moment of determination and will had given way to doubt and fear.

  Some guy stood and turned, frowning at Xander/Sarah with arms folded across his chest with the contempt only those who are utterly evil can bring to bear. The body belonged to Rick Church, but the stooped shoulders revealed the true personality to be that of elderly Judge Danforth.

  “Pray to your betters, Sarah Dinsdale!” Danforth said in a booming voice. “Bow before us. Perhaps you’ll give us reason to show mercy.”

  “Sarah? Who’s Sarah?” asked some of the customers aloud to friends or those close by, and most everyone chuckled or giggled as they eyed Xander.

  Only Xander/Sarah cowered before this man. The crowd might be amused but she was the only one who knew the truth: This man was about to call up the forces of darkness.

  At the moment, Buffy was more afraid of the crowd. So far she’d tried to avoid doing her Slayer stuff before strangers, especially a hundred and fifty of them. This place undoubtedly had security cameras. That meant she’d really be doing her thing before the entirety of civilization as she knew it today.

  People forget, Giles had once said. Cameras remember. Forever.

  Meanwhile, Rick/Danforth became angry at the crowd. He seethed with anger barely contained, his emotions struggling with a strong disbelief factor. After all, he wasn’t used to having the common rabble treat him with such disrespectful familiarity.

  “You people are doomed,” he said. “It awes me to see such ignorant buffoons embrace their destruction so enthusiastically. So be it.”

  He snapped his fingers. He waited.

  Three other people rose out of the booth. On the surface they were Lora Church, Eric Frank and Darryl MacGovern.

  Almost. They didn’t act like Lora, Eric and Darryl. MacGovern/Mather held forth the Vivaldi Moonman in one hand like a club, just in case Buffy doubted he had possession of it. Lora’s posture, meanwhile, had changed from that of a woman to that of an awkward adolescent, like Heather. And Frank’s obnoxious demeanor had changed into the stern malevolence of Sheriff Corwin.

  And once again they had Sarah in captivity. Her talents would augment and complete their circle of power.

  Buffy realized she never would have known this if it hadn’t been for the dreams. The patrons had no reason to suspect the four standing were anything other than they appeared to be, two well-dressed yuppies along with two reporters with bad fashion instincts. And a guy named Sarah. The patrons had no idea what they were dealing with.

  This is it, Buffy realized. All the pieces are in place. Our rerun is imminent.

  Rick/Danforth’s fingers snapped and produced the tiniest flash of light, so tiny Buffy was certain she was one of the few who caught it.

  Buffy realized she couldn’t wait any longer. She had to do something.

  And then the zombies hit.

  CHAPTER 11

  The zombies were hard to miss. They came crashing through the front windows. A line of zombies marched double-time through the entrance, while another line came charging from the men’s room and a third came from the lady’s. They’d evidently come in through the bathroom windows.

  The first thing Buffy noticed about this army of the undead was that it was well-armed with the latest in assault weaponry.

  Most of the zombies were derived from the corpses of old men, though quite a few had been young men, and a good number of corpses from both categories had been maimed before the ravages of decay had set in.

  Buffy remembered there was a Veterans of Foreign Wars cemetery in Sunnydale. They must have hit an armory on the way over.

  Needless to say, the crowd’s reaction was immediate. People screamed and tried to scramble away, but a few of the zombies fired in the air. Lights burst and debris fell from the ceiling while the people screamed again and dropped to the floor—the way they’d seen innocent bystanders do in movies whenever there was gunfire in a crowded situation.

  Only Edith, Buffy and the possessed people were left standing; Xander/Sarah was still cowering.

  Edith had realized she was one of the few still standing, and she’d also recognized that Buffy stood her ground like someone who knew how to handle herself whenever she was surrounded by massive armies of the undead. Though how she recognized that, Edith wasn’t sure. She was sure, however, that she’d quit smoking the minute she got out of this alive.

  Buffy pointed to the floor. Edith nodded, got down and crawled out of the immediate vicinity while trying to be as inconspicuous as possible.

  “What’s next, people?” Buffy asked. “Turkey dinner?”

  “I do not understand,” said Lora/Heather. “Was that supposed to be humorous, child?”

  Buffy bristled. She had her hands in fists and she made tiny steps back and forth, very indecisively. She would have had no problem doing something about the zombies—she might have even charged right in at the possessed people—but the presence of so many innocent bystanders was unprecedented in her experience.

  I’m a slayer, not a cop! she thought. “All right, Danforth—Rick Church—or whoever you are. You have what you want. All four of you. You have Sarah and me right where you want us. Why don’t you send these zombies back where they came from?”

  “Oh, my dear, I am afraid we need them,” said Danforth unctuously. “In order to guard all these hostages. And I am afraid we need these hostages as well, to keep you towing the straight and narrow.”

  “We cannot afford unpredictable events during the ceremony,” said MacGovern/Mather.

  “Thanks for telling her, you imbecile!” hissed Frank/Corwin.

  “Excuse me. I am a judge,” said Rick/Danforth.

  “Excuse you,” said Buffy. “You’re a man who doesn’t know he’s dead.”

  “What do you know about death?” snorted Lora/Heather.

  “Been there, bought the T-shirt.” Buffy gestured at the people. “Anyone of these people might do something you hadn’t planned on and screw everything up until the next time the stars or whatever are right for you to try again. S
o you’ll have to wait—what? Another three hundred years? Deal with the wait.”

  “She is right,” said Rick/Danforth.

  “I agree,” said MacGovern/Mather.

  “Kill them all,” said Lora/Heather to the zombies.

  Buffy tensed; the time had come to do or die. She just wished things had gone a little better before she died.

  “No!” said Xander/Sarah. “You must wait!”

  “Why is that?” sneered Frank/Corwin.

  “I cannot speak for whoever has brought us here now,” said Xander/Sarah, “but the Despised One would not have appreciated the fact that you arranged for his first feast, then slew everyone before he had the opportunity to make the first bite. I can imagine how the current Master gets when his appetites are not sated. You must not kill them. You must allow them to wait outside, unharmed.”

  “I get it,” said Heather. “When the Master rises, he will know what to do with them.”

  Which is not going to happen, Buffy added to herself. Then: The Master, eh? What a surprise. His decayed hand is all over this.

  The four looked at one another. Buffy kept one eye on the zombie army, another on the hostages and a third on the Freakin’ Four. Were they silently communicating with each other?

  Finally they turned to face Buffy and their captives. “I have made my decision,” said Rick/Danforth.

  “No!” said Lora/Heather. “We have come to our decision. Here we are all equals.”

  “I fear you have spent too long in the New World,” said Rick/Danforth sadly. “It has affected your mind.”

  “Death has a way of doing that,” said Buffy.

  “In any case,” said Frank/Corwin, “the end result is the same. Buffy—or should I say, Kane?—we will let these people leave the premises only on one condition: that you surrender yourself immediately.” He held a rope out to a zombie, who lowered its assault weapon, took the rope and walked toward Buffy.