and so it starts...
It was kind of like old times, Buffy'd had to admit. Turn back the clock three weeks, prior to the Hellmouth falling in on itself and this was what her house had looked like - a rag-tag bunch of demon hunters, seated firmly in the skilled and unskilled category, scattered about her living room.
The only difference this time? Was that they were smack in the middle of a zombie apocalypse and this very much was not her living room.
"You got anything?"
Buffy looked up at the sound of Dawn's voice. They'd bantered good naturedly throughout dinner, leaving the apocalypse out of the situation ('cause Mom's rule about no-demon-talk-at-the-table had totally lasted) and now, finally, they were sitting down to research.
"Nope. You gotta have a doctorate in five different languages to even get a hit on Samhain, apparently," said Buffy, shaking her head. "And I got nothing even close other than that." Her idea for dividing their resources seemed like a pretty dumb one now, given that half their resources were self-professed non-researchers.
Sam and Dean, after being ridiculed lightly about their aprons during dinner, had headed out back with Bobby; taking the training of the girls away from hand-to-hand combat and into firearms and their various incarnations.
Buffy, still unable to shoot as good as the rest, had opted out, choosing instead to sit inside with Dawn who was way more comfortable away from the weapons. "Giles is talking to the Watcher's Council. Willow and Faith--" Buffy frowned, "Have we heard from Faith?"
"She called a while ago," Dawn shrugged, "Supplied up and heading back. Everyone present and accounted for. She said the local mall was like a ghost town."
Buffy sighed. That seemed to be the case everywhere now. Maybe people had actually started listening to the broadcasts.
"Do we even have a plan?"
It was the first time Dawn had touched on it since they'd got here and, for the first time, Buffy heard the worry in her voice. "Dawnie--"
"Buffy, I'm 17 years old. A year older than you when you got called. I'm not a kid any more and whether you like it or not? I am officially part of this apocalypse, just--Don't lie to me, alright?"
----------
Rattled, Faith wiped the back of her hand across her face, trying to get rid of some of the grime. Her arm burned.
Eleven girls with her, ten newly-minted slayers - every one of them dead; ambushed by zombies - and she'd survived. Barely. And with one fucking A-list bite on her arm that, likely as not, was gonna turn her status to Living Dead Girl within a few hours.
She glanced up into the rearview mirror, biting back harsh laughter that was beginning to border on hysteria. She'd ended the zombies. The one that'd sunk its teeth into her had wound up as little more than a puddle on the floor and when she'd turned, stumbling backwards to tell what little of her crew was left to get the hell out of there, she'd found Willow.
What was left of her.
She told herself, even as she was driving back, as her arm itched and burned, that she owed it to Willow, to the others, to Xander and B, maybe, to tell them what'd happened.
She owed them jack. They'd fought together, sure. Beaten off a goddamn apocalypse, one that'd wanted to swallow the world whole and the thing that had effectively fucking ended her had been a zombie. One. Not even a big zombie.
Nearing Bobby's yard, Faith fought back the wave of nausea. She'd brought back the supplies Willow had grabbed from the local hoo-doo store - if she wasn't gonna use them, maybe Giles or someone could.
She wasn't good at this. Nothin' I could do, B... She was sorry. Really. Of all the ways to go out, winding up as zombie chow had to be one of the worst and she figured that, even though Red had gone off the chart crazy for a while there, she'd be up by the numbers.
World didn't see it that way.
Being eaten by a zombie was one of the worst ways to go out.
Becoming one of them? Was probably worse than that, Faith thought. And oh-so-fucking fitting for her - she who wasn't and probably never would be up by the numbers.
Beside her, on the seat, lay Ellen's shotgun. Funny, when she'd given her it earlier, Faith's use for one of the last bullets probably wasn't what she'd had in mind.
Pulling her sleeve down over the wound, Faith grabbed the shotgun and the supplies, getting down out of Bobby's truck and heading towards the bunker.
The only difference this time? Was that they were smack in the middle of a zombie apocalypse and this very much was not her living room.
"You got anything?"
Buffy looked up at the sound of Dawn's voice. They'd bantered good naturedly throughout dinner, leaving the apocalypse out of the situation ('cause Mom's rule about no-demon-talk-at-the-table had totally lasted) and now, finally, they were sitting down to research.
"Nope. You gotta have a doctorate in five different languages to even get a hit on Samhain, apparently," said Buffy, shaking her head. "And I got nothing even close other than that." Her idea for dividing their resources seemed like a pretty dumb one now, given that half their resources were self-professed non-researchers.
Sam and Dean, after being ridiculed lightly about their aprons during dinner, had headed out back with Bobby; taking the training of the girls away from hand-to-hand combat and into firearms and their various incarnations.
Buffy, still unable to shoot as good as the rest, had opted out, choosing instead to sit inside with Dawn who was way more comfortable away from the weapons. "Giles is talking to the Watcher's Council. Willow and Faith--" Buffy frowned, "Have we heard from Faith?"
"She called a while ago," Dawn shrugged, "Supplied up and heading back. Everyone present and accounted for. She said the local mall was like a ghost town."
Buffy sighed. That seemed to be the case everywhere now. Maybe people had actually started listening to the broadcasts.
"Do we even have a plan?"
It was the first time Dawn had touched on it since they'd got here and, for the first time, Buffy heard the worry in her voice. "Dawnie--"
"Buffy, I'm 17 years old. A year older than you when you got called. I'm not a kid any more and whether you like it or not? I am officially part of this apocalypse, just--Don't lie to me, alright?"
----------
Rattled, Faith wiped the back of her hand across her face, trying to get rid of some of the grime. Her arm burned.
Eleven girls with her, ten newly-minted slayers - every one of them dead; ambushed by zombies - and she'd survived. Barely. And with one fucking A-list bite on her arm that, likely as not, was gonna turn her status to Living Dead Girl within a few hours.
She glanced up into the rearview mirror, biting back harsh laughter that was beginning to border on hysteria. She'd ended the zombies. The one that'd sunk its teeth into her had wound up as little more than a puddle on the floor and when she'd turned, stumbling backwards to tell what little of her crew was left to get the hell out of there, she'd found Willow.
What was left of her.
She told herself, even as she was driving back, as her arm itched and burned, that she owed it to Willow, to the others, to Xander and B, maybe, to tell them what'd happened.
She owed them jack. They'd fought together, sure. Beaten off a goddamn apocalypse, one that'd wanted to swallow the world whole and the thing that had effectively fucking ended her had been a zombie. One. Not even a big zombie.
Nearing Bobby's yard, Faith fought back the wave of nausea. She'd brought back the supplies Willow had grabbed from the local hoo-doo store - if she wasn't gonna use them, maybe Giles or someone could.
She wasn't good at this. Nothin' I could do, B... She was sorry. Really. Of all the ways to go out, winding up as zombie chow had to be one of the worst and she figured that, even though Red had gone off the chart crazy for a while there, she'd be up by the numbers.
World didn't see it that way.
Being eaten by a zombie was one of the worst ways to go out.
Becoming one of them? Was probably worse than that, Faith thought. And oh-so-fucking fitting for her - she who wasn't and probably never would be up by the numbers.
Beside her, on the seat, lay Ellen's shotgun. Funny, when she'd given her it earlier, Faith's use for one of the last bullets probably wasn't what she'd had in mind.
Pulling her sleeve down over the wound, Faith grabbed the shotgun and the supplies, getting down out of Bobby's truck and heading towards the bunker.