Slayer'verse: Between a Wild Time and a Flat Line (Bob/Frank) 1/2
Title: Between a Wild Time and a Flat Line
Author: saekokato
Fandom: Bandom (MCR, PatD, TYV, mentions of FOB, Cab), Popslash (BSB)
Pairing: Bob/Frank, Brian/Ray/Gerard
Rating: NC-17/NSFW
Word count: 11,589
Summary: Bob’s friends throw him a surprise birthday party. Except nobody invited the monsters.
Notes: Betas by the awesome roseclaw, and the super clever mahoni. For the Bob Bryar Thing-A-Thon over at thingama_bob. Part of roseclaw’s and my’s Slayer’verse. This story follows No Chain, No Lock (No Fear, No Doubt).
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Between a Wild Time and a Flat Line
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Bob fumbles for the knife in his pocket at the screams, dropping the bag of priceless books he and Frank had picked up for Brian in Tucson to the floor. The screams actually register as shouts along the lines of "Happy Belated Birthday, Bob!" about the same time as Bob finally manages to unearth the thing. Frank is on the floor next to the books, giggling his annoyingly screechy giggle.
Bob fucking hates his boyfriend.
"Bob! Why so fierce, Bob? There's nothing but love here!" Is the only warning Bob has before he has two armfuls of Brendon Urie.
For all of two seconds.
"Damn-it, Brendon. You are such a fucking idiot," Ryan grumbles as Spencer bodily pulls Brendon off of Bob. Luckily, Bob had only pulled the knife out and hadn't, oh, opened the blade or anything even mildly helpful in the face of a full body attack. Not that Bob would want to kill Brendon.
Maiming has crossed Bob's mind a time or two, though. The kid is entirely too open with personal boundaries.
"Bob could have killed you, Brendon. And I can't say I'd blame him," Ryan continues. He has his arms crossed over his skinny chest and is frowning at Brendon. Or, at least, frowning if Ryan ever made an actual facial expression. Bob would have been just as able to translate Ryan Ross as your average tree stump had the two of them not fallen into that trap by that coven of evil witches a year ago.
(Bob has learned, mostly from threats to his life by the various good witches he and Frank have worked with in the past half-decade, to always specify the difference between good and evil witches. Vicky-T may be beautiful, but Bob is more appreciative of her left hook than his is of her, admittedly awesome, breasts.)
"Relax, Ryan Rossy!" Brendon squirms from Spencer's grasp and proceeds to wrap himself around Ryan. "Bob loves me! Bob would never hurt me!"
"He would if I asked him to," Ryan informs Brendon. But he still wraps a fingerless gloved hand around Brendon's hip.
"Bob wouldn't!" Brendon attempts to stare Ryan down, even if the kid wouldn't know a good stare down if it bit him in the ass. Eyebrows do not wag or wiggle in a good stare down. Bob would know - he and Frank engage in enough of them.
"Bob would," Bob corrects. He puts his knife away and kicks a still giggling Frank in the side. "But I would demand doughnuts in payment."
"What if I said it was for the good of the world?" Ryan asks. Brendon had given up trying to match Ryan glare for glare and now had his head tucked onto Ryan's shoulder.
"And coffee," is all Bob says.
"Nice to see you're still such a sweetheart, Bryar." Brian pushes past the trio to pull Bob into a quick hug. Complete with a few manly backslaps.
“What’s so urgent about a birthday party, Schechter?” Bob asks. Because Brian should know better than to cry wolf. Next time Bob might just leave his ass to die by slime monster.
“I never said it was an emergency, Bryar,” Brian scoffs. At least Bob thinks that’s what the sound Brian makes is supposed to be. Obviously Brian’s been spending too much time with Gerard without supervision again. Bob is going to have to have another talk with Ray, especially to emphasize Rule #1.
(Rule #1: Never leave Brian and Gerard unsupervised for long periods of time unless proper distraction material is provided. Example: porn.)
“If you choose to interpret my message like that, it’s your own damn fault,” Brian says. “I am not responsible for your colossal apparitions.”
Yeah. Bob and Ray definitely need to have a long talk. Rule #2: Brian’s subscription to the OED is to remain null and void for the safety of all. Yes, Toro, even the demons.
“Whatever you say, Cupcake,” Bob says. “Now if this is a birthday party, where’s the fucking cake?”
“All in due time, man,” Gerard says from behind Bob. Despite all accounts to the contrary, Bob is not startled. Gerard’s grin has nothing to do with Bob’s not being startled. In fact, Bob knows it’s all for Brian, whom Gerard has saddled up next to. Those three, seriously. “You don’t need all that sugar, really. It’s bad for you.”
Bob glares at him and Brian both. “What is with you two? He won’t give me top shelf. You won’t give me cake. Ray is totally my favorite.”
“Thanks a lot, Bryar,” Ray says dryly. He puts his arm around Gerard’s waist. “I haven’t done anything to you, so why do you have to cause trouble for me?”
“Too much time with Iero,” Brian says. He leans against Gerard as he smirks at Bob.
Ray takes a moment to think about that. His nod of agreement has Frank, who had just climbed off of the floor, launching himself at Ray with a (not at all) fierce Iero war cry. The tackle sends Ray, Frank, and Gerard to the floor. Brian, having spent too much time around Wentz, had sidestepped Frank’s lunge.
Bob just punches Brian’s shoulder. “Fuck off, Cupcake. I have far too many stories of you being a complete dumbass waiting in the wings for your shit.”
“Oohh! Stories? What kind of stories?” Brendon asks. He sidesteps the flailing pile of limbs that is Ray, Gerard, and Frank to pop up at Bob’s side. “Are they fun stories that’ll make Brian blush and swear? Because Ray and Gee seem to have run out of them.”
“Oh my god, Brendon. Shut up!” Spencer groans. Brendon just smiles cheekily at him while Ryan looks long suffering. Considering Ryan had been dragged over by Brendon because the two were still attached, Bob figures Ryan has a right to look long suffering. Even if he and Spencer should be used to Brendon by now.
Bob knows the feeling.
“Yes, Urie, shut up,” Brian says. He sighs. “We don’t need to be egging Bob on.”
“Poor Brian - your life, so hard!” Bob says with a snicker.
“One day I will kill you and it will all be blamed on the werewolves, Bryar,” Brian warns. He even shakes his finger in Bob’s face. Bob is nice enough to not break it for him.
“Aww, Cupcake! Don’t be like that,” Bob says. He picks up and drops the duffle of books. They thump loudly against the hardwood. “Especially since I brought you gifts.”
“Isn’t that a little backwards?” Ryan asks. “What with this being your birthday party?”
“I like doing things backwards,” Bob says. “It keeps you people on your toes.”
“Ha! You just don’t want to admit you hadn’t figured out the surprise party,” Frank says. He’s giggling, and Ray is holding him in the air by his feet. Gerard is looking on with a calculating expression on his face, and Bob knows an epic tickle-tackle battle is about to begin.
At least they aren’t in a set of cramped vans this time.
“The monkey is all yours, Toro,” Bob says. He wants nothing to do with any epic battles at the moment. He wants friends, laughter, and cake. He motions Brian forward as he picks the duffle up again. “Lead the way, Schechter. Then we’ll get down to this party business.”
Brain rolls his eyes but leads the way through the rest of the people in the room - Mikey and his wife, Alicia, their east coast contact who was supposed to have been vacationing in Cancun, a couple of the local Decaydance crew, all the people Bob knows and is willing to trust, and all of whom who were watching Frank be an idiot with great glee - to the back hallway that leads from the living room to the kitchen-dinning room, the basement/gym doorway, and the study.
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“Do you have to egg them on?” Brian asks with a sigh. He starts unloading the duffle. Bob would help except for how Brian’s a pissy little bitch when his perfect organization system is messed up.
Also, it’s Bob’s birthday party. He’s allowed to be lazy.
“I have no idea what you are talking about,” Bob says. He leans back in Ray’s desk chair - the most comfortable of all the chairs in the room - and puts his feet up on the table in front of him. It’s a tiny little thing that only holds a lamp and shakes a little under the extra weight but holds up enough that Bob is pretty sure it won’t collapse under him.
It honestly looks like a coffee house café and a library threw up in this room. There are three long tables that you’d find in your average public library arranged in a triangle at the center of the room with a couple smaller personal desk style tables scattered around the fringes, and about ten different types of chairs pushed every which way. The walls are lined with built in bookcases that hold everything from ancient demon texts to last month’s X-Men release, and everything else in between.
Bob has no idea how Brian manages to get anything done in this room - Gerard is crazy enough to feel comfortable in here but Bob can only imagine Brian tearing out his hair in frustration over the chaos.
“You didn’t call us out here for a party,” Bob continues.
Brian shifts the seven hundred year old Rinae text back and forth between his hands for a couple of moments. Then he places it next to the well worn Joe Trohman Handy-Dandy Notebook.
(Brian certainly has a filing system. Mostly Bob thinks it’s ‘just toss a book on the shelf in a random order so that it looks like it’s in some preordained order’.
Brian is an asshole like that.)
“Yes and no,” Brian says. He moves Gerard’s Hellboy anthologies to the side and slides the latest edition of Merc’s Lies of Angels and Saints in its place. “Mikey, Alicia and Jamia were all visiting anyway, Ross, Urie and Smith are on their way through town, and everyone else has settled within a four hour drive. Not too hard to call everyone up and say, ‘Party!’”
“So this was Gerard’s idea,” Bob says. It’s either that or Frank is being a sneaky little shit again.
“Frank’s a sneaky little shit,” Brian confirms.
“He’s still pissed about New Years,” Bob sighs. Like it was Bob’s fault they’d ended up snowed in at a creepy but not at all supernaturally infected bed and breakfast in Wyoming for the week surrounding Bob’s birthday.
“Frank’s still pissed,” Brian agrees. He slides the last book into place. Then he picks up a couple of sheets of paper with Spencer’s and Gerard’s scrawls scribbled across them. “And then there’s this.”
Bob takes the papers and flips through them. He can’t read Gerard’s handwriting on a good day but given that Spencer’s own neat writing has jotted down a demonic language that Bob isn’t familiar with, Bob doesn’t think he could have read it anyway. There are a couple of sketches - symbols and odd patterns - that seem familiar lining the outside margins of all the pages. Bob can’t place them, but he knows them. Especially the little swirly thing that almost looks like quarter moon that grew fuzz. He tells Brian as much.
Brian shrugs. “We’ll figure it out. Smith said that it wasn’t urgent yet, so we’ve spent the last couple of days doing some basic research.”
“Business that slow?” Bob asks. Because they rarely have time to do days of basic research - the Snowflake Hellmouth may not be the most happening of Hellmouths but there is still usually something going on. For nothing to be happening is a really bad sign.
“Even Miguel’s kids have been perfect little darlings,” Brian sighs. He leans against one of the long tables - Frank swears they stole them from the public library and the way the accusation sends Brian into a muttering rage and Gerard into a pack a day habit, Bob’s willing to bet it’s mostly true - and crosses his arms over his chest. “Ray was actually looking at time shares. In Florida. Florida. Ray.”
Bob blinks. “You’re telling me this is the last birthday party I’ll ever have.”
“Yes, princess. Make this all about you,” Brain says. He throws a balled up piece of paper at Bob’s head.
Which Bob catches and lobs back at him. “You know what I meant, Cupcake.” Brian flips him off. “Other than Gerard’s and Spencer’s horrible handwriting, you have what exactly?”
“Not much.” Brian shrugs. “We think the vamp population is growing - not that we can really tell without going crypt to crypt, and I’ll thank you not to plant that idea in Gerard’s head - and there are a plethora of fresh bodies at the morgue but nothing else is out of the ordinary.”
“Except the quiet.”
“Except the quiet,” Brian agrees.
“Huh.” Bob rubs a hand over the back of his neck as he reads through the sheets again. Then he shrugs. “Yeah. I’ve got nothing.”
“Like I said, Smith says we have time,” Brian repeats.
“Well, if the Seer says so,” Bob drawls.
Brian rolls his eyes. “Shut up, Bryar. Like you know any better.”
Bob doesn’t but he isn’t about to tell Brian that. Or about the heavy feeling pooling in his gut.
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An indeterminate time later, after dinner and presents and the worst rendition of “Happy Birthday” Bob has ever been forced to endure, finds Bob catching up with Jamia, the east coast contact for the Decaydance crew and Brian’s little non-regulation Watcher group. Despite the occasional flare up of irrational jealousy - on Bob’s part. Who knew working with your boyfriend’s long ago ex would be so stress inducing? - Jamia is both excellent company and full of excellent ideas.
Mostly on the Frank wrangling front but Bob isn’t going to turn down any useful or pertinent advice.
“Tying him down doesn’t really help matters,” she’s telling him. They’re off to one side of the dining room with plates of birthday cake and far, far away from whatever crazy thing Frank is currently involved in with Brendon and Mikey. Bob really, really doesn’t want to know. He’d swear on a stack of whatever holy books Gerard happens to have scattered about the main floor of the house that he really, seriously doesn’t want to know.
Especially after he’d gotten a good look at the new picture of Mikey and Alicia in the living room. Apparently someone had talked someone else into attending a D&D conference at one of the hotels on the Strip, and Mikey had ended up with a trio of mini-apprentices. All of whom were in the background of the photo wearing costumes straight from fucking EverQuest. Brian says there’s a story behind all of that, but Bob just doesn’t want to know.
Bob nods. “I know. He was quiet for three days, then BAM. Right back at it.”
Jamia pats him on the shoulder. “Could be worse, Bryar.”
Bob snorts. “Yeah, you want to explain that to me, Nestor?”
“He could have been a vampire with a soul destined to return to Ultimate Evil should he have a single moment of happiness,” she says. Completely straight faced. If Bob were ever to list someone as his hero, her name would be Jamia Nestor.
“What?” Bob asks. Because, what? “Is Gerard working on a new comic?”
Jamia laughs. “No, worse: it’s true. The Slayer out in southern California? You know, the actual facts Slayer? Well, apparently she’s the one and only and forever of a vampire that’s going by the name Angel now.”
“Angel?” Bob asks. The name sounds vaguely familiar. Then again, it definitely fits southern California. Bob and Frank haven’t been back in that general direction since Brian sent them on that bogus ghost hunt in San Francisco.
“Yep. Angel is actually the vampire Angelus,” Jamia says. She stops and takes a bite of her cake, and raises an eyebrow at Bob.
Bob scowls at her. He hates it when people think he hasn’t done his research. It isn’t his fault he came late to the game. Considering he’d spent twenty years of his life not knowing that there was even a game to begin with, Bob thinks he’s doing a damn find job all around. “Angelus was that vampire in the twentieth century that pretty much spread destruction throughout most of Europe, wasn’t he?”
“Yep. He’s in LA now, fighting the good fight,” Jamia says. “Apparently he was cursed by some Romanian gypsies because he tortured and killed one of their favorite sisters or something. Then he and the Slayer fell in love or whatever - she was sixteen? Maybe? - and he went evil and she had to send him to a hell dimension for a while. Soap. Opera.”
Bob raises an eyebrow. “Yeah, sounds like it.” He takes a bite of his cake and ignores the sudden thump and shouts from the living room. He doesn’t want to know. “I think I’ll stick with Frank.”
“Good choice,” she says.
They finish their cake in companionable silence, watching as Ray races into the kitchen for paper towels and ice, then back to the living room. After a few minutes, Brian comes out of the living room holding the bridge of his nose and heading straight for the leftover cake, where he cuts himself a huge slice, and then joins Jamia and Bob.
“I think they might actually be worse than Wentz,” Brian says once he’s eaten half of his slice. He stares at it for a long moment with his fork raised before he drops the fork on the table and holds the plate out to Bob and Jamia.
“Not possible, and are you’re eyes too big for your stomach, Cupcake?” Bob asks. He cuts the cake into two mostly equal portions and gives the larger half to Jamia. “Also, I don’t want to know.”
“Bite me, Princess,” Brian says. “You really, really don’t. I liked that lamp, too.”
Bob and Jamia wisely say nothing as they finish their second helping of cake. It’s good cake, too. Lots of chocolate, whipped frosting, and sprinkles. Not exactly what Bob would have wished for - he knows Gerard and Brendon had to have been the primary persons involved - but still. Very, very tasty.
“So, Schechter,” Jamia says as she gathers up their plates and forks to take into the kitchen. Bob and Brian follow her on her way to the dishwasher. “Where’re all the people in town? I think every motel in the area is either empty or closed out for the week. And I didn’t see those kids you were talking about yesterday on my jog this morning.”
“Miguel’s brats?” Brian asks. He opens the dishwasher and takes the dirty dishes from Jamia to load them up. “They’re usually running around the house at all hours. Maybe Miguel finally grounded the little bastards.”
“Give it up, Cupcake. We all know you adore those kids,” Bob says. He’s staying far away from the cleaning - it’s his birthday party and he’s going to be lazy if he has to stake something - but his mind is actually on how easy it was to get through town earlier. Usually they hit every light in a four mile radius around Snowflake, and then there are all the people who are usually out and about. The second time they’d come through Snowflake, Frank had started giving points out for the most obnoxious walkers, talkers, and drivers they’d come across.
This time, Snowflake had been a virtual ghost town. The only thing missing had been the tumbleweeds.
“I think we need to sit Smith down and explain the difference between warnings and dates again,” Bob says. He really had been hoping for a few days off.
Brian closes the dishwasher with a thud, then turns to Bob. “You can’t be serious.”
“Sorry, Cupcake,” Bob says. He turns and leads Jamia and Brian towards the living room. “Party’s over.”
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Two hours later, they have everyone situated in the study. Gerard, Ray, and Brian are at a table on one edge of the triangle handing out reference materials and notepads to those that had volunteered to hit the books. Those volunteers include Gerard, Spencer, Ryan, Brendon, Jamia, Mikey, and the trio of Alexes that had followed Mikey and Alicia down from Vegas.
Gerard has everyone in that group separated into three smaller groups. Gerard, Mikey, and Jamia are looking over all of the research Brian and Ray have already cobbled together. Spencer, Ryan, and Brendon are looking into all of the prophecies that have anything to do with either Snowflake’s general geographical location or whatever Spencer has Seen that might have something to do with a normally thriving tourist town/Hellmouth suddenly making like a ghost town out of a bad horror film. The Alexes are scouring ever book they can lay hands on for any of the symbols or images on the paper that Brian had shown Bob.
Bob is sitting on one of the tables pushed against the far wall, and Frank is swinging around on the chair in front of him. The two of them, Ray, Brian, Alicia, Big Worm, and the group of four guys from Cortez, Colorado, just over the northeastern Arizona border, are the ones heading out into Snowflake for the up close and personal type of information gathering.
“I’ve had six Dreams over the last three months that have dealt with this set of symbols,” Spencer says. He’s pointing at the list of symbols and images that he and Gerard have put up on one of the room’s many white boards, some of which having been hastily erected over bookcases. “We haven’t had much luck as of yet locating any of these symbols in the normal texts. But Bob and Frank just delivered some texts that might be more helpful to us.”
“I’ve seen those symbols before,” Bob says. He has his latest journal out and he’s flipping through it as he speaks. Frank has the other four journals in his hands. They’re probably going to have to leave them here for Gerard to go through, but Bob figures he might get lucky. It’s unlikely, but weirder things have happened. “I can’t remember where.”
“I remember they mean bad news,” Frank says. He’s frowning at the whiteboard. “Just… Fuck.” He bounces the journals loudly against his knees.
“It’ll come to you; don’t push it,” Spencer says. He spares them both a quick grin when they glare at him in unison. “Trust me.”
Bob rolls his eyes and goes back to his journal. If there ever was a guy who knew what he was talking about when it came to minds and remembering shit, Spencer was probably it. Still, that didn’t mean Bob had to like it. He knows those symbols and he’ll thank his mind to cough up the memories sometime soon.
“Talk to us about the air around here,” the other Brian says. He’s one of the group of four from Cortez, and he’d told them all to call him ‘B-rok’ but Bob isn’t going to call anyone something that fucking stupid. He’s waiting for someone to use the guy’s last name so he won’t have to keep calling the guy, ‘the other Brian’.
(Also, Bob has a hard time calling a guy the same name as a character from fucking Pokemon. He doesn’t care how many times playing those stupid games has saved his sanity from the tedious boredom that is most of tour life, ‘Brock’ is a dumb fucking name.)
The other three guys had introduced themselves as AJ, Howie, and Nick. Apparently the four of them had helped Brian, Gerard, and Ray root out a nasty group of werewolves that had been feeding on tourists around the Four Corners.
“It’s dry and hot,” Brian says. Well, snaps. Brian is being extra snappy and sarcastic at the moment. “You don’t live that far north, Littrell.”
“He means, what’s been going on in the area the last couple of weeks,” Howie clarifies. He puts his hand on the arm of the skinny tattooed guy with the sunglasses, Bob thinks his name is AJ, to keep him from getting up.
“It’s been a creepy amount of silent in Cortez,” Nick says. He spins back and forth in his chair, only narrowly missing hitting Howie or Brian L., who are sitting on either side of him. “No demon uprisings, no spells gone wonky, no roving bands of werewolves looking to snack on the local cheerleaders. Even the local vamps have shut up. Quiet.”
Ray nods. “Same here. All of the usual troublemakers have been on their best behavior.”
“And the usual signs have been silent,” Gerard says. He’s sitting on the corner of the table closest to his brother and holding open a huge book that is about twice as wide as he is. “Eerily silent, too.”
“The usual signs will go off if a kid stumbles over a patch of newly grown hog’s wart,” Brian says before anyone has a chance to start asking about this sign or that sign.
“And town was practically empty when we came through this afternoon,” Frank says. “I didn’t even see the lady who’s always out in front of the library.”
“Mrs. Ellen, and she’s visiting her son for the month,” Brian says. He runs a hand through his hair. “We haven’t even had to really patrol in almost a week.”
“So, what you’re saying is that it’s been crazy quiet around here, and now all of the locals have fucked off,” AJ says. He points at Spencer. “And the Seer says he’s been having visions of mysterious symbols that both Bryar and Iero know but can’t place, and we - a large contingent of supernatural hunters - have just so happened to conveniently show up in the same place at the same time.”
Gerard nods. “Exactly.”
“So we’re fucked,” AJ says. He shares a dark look with Nick.
“I wouldn’t say that,” Gerard says. “We had quiet periods…”
“Exactly,” Brian interrupts. He smiles at Gerard. “Sorry, Gee, but Ray was looking at vacation homes in Florida. Florida.”
“Awesome. Where’s your weapons cache?” AJ asks. He looks over at Howie. “Did we bring the extra bags with us this time?”
“They’re all in the trunk, AJ,” Howie says. “You can go get it in a minute.”
“Spence?” Brendon asks. He climbs out of his chair and goes over to Spencer, who’s eyes have gone blank.
Great, another vision. Bob just hopes that this one will be more helpful than the last couple Spencer’s had.
The room stays silent as they wait for Spencer to come back to himself. Those on book duty are rustling through whatever they have in front of them, and everyone else is either shifting impatiently or checking whatever weapons they happen to have on them.
Bob spends the couple of minutes reading through the January and February entries in his journal. Somehow he doesn’t think that they’re going to be dealing with any malevolent ghosts this time around. Which is perfectly fine with him. He’s had enough fun being tossed around like a fucking ragdoll.
Finally Spencer’s eyes stop staring blankly into space and he sags against Brendon. “Scratch ghosts, werewolves, and any sprites, spirits, and pixies off of our list of baddies,” Spencer says, voice dry. “We’re dealing with something in the crypts.”
“That leaves vampires and about a thousand different demons,” Jamia says. She starts listing known crypt loving demons on a clean whiteboard, while the group on recon starts getting ready to leave.
“I didn’t see any identifying details, sorry,” Spencer says as Bob hands Gerard his journals. Gerard smiles sweetly at Bob, and Bob knows he’s going to regret letting Gerard anywhere near his private thoughts. If only Bob really had a choice in the matter. Stupid sense of responsibility.
“It’s okay,” Ray says. He’s spread a map over the long table closest to the door, and he’s motioning for the recon group to gather around it. As he talks, he points out the cemeteries he’s assigning to each group. “There are only three cemeteries in town. We’ll split into three groups: me, Alicia, and Worm in group one and tackling Morris & Sons. Group two will be Brian, Bob, and Frank at Grandview. And you four can take Wolfsbane.”
“At least we know the way,” Howie says as AJ mutters, “Fucking Wolfs & Bait.”
“Come on, McLean,” Brian says with a smirk. “Let me show you our cache.”
“Bryar!” Spencer says as the nine of them start filing out of the room. He grins weakly at Bob when Bob turns around. “Make sure you have your axe.”
Bob doesn’t blink at that, just nods and waves over his shoulder as he goes. Of course he isn’t going to forget his axe.
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They’re halfway through their cemetery when they first hear the moans. Frank and Brian have been bitching about who’s idea it was for the surprise party - a conversation Bob could really live without having to hear - while Bob does his best not to end up with a black eye from one of Frank’s waving fists or as dinner from a vampire attracted to how loud Frank and Brian are being.
“Look, I’m telling you, I thought it up in Cleveland!” Frank says. Bob really doubts that, considering the last time they were anywhere near Cleveland was about six months before Bob’s birthday. “You’re just jealous, Schechter.”
“Yes, Iero, I’m so fucking jealous,” Brian says. He rolls his eyes as he steps around a particularly large and ugly tombstone. “Because you are not completely delusional. Oh, wait.”
“Shut up,” Frank says. He shakes his stake in Brian’s general direction. “Just because you couldn’t…”
“Frank. Quiet.” Bob stops dead in his tracks when he hears the moans. It’s a really low guttural sound, and Bob would have missed it if he hadn’t spent half a decade listening for similar sounds over crappy soundboards. He knows that sound, and it isn’t something you’d commonly hear over a club’s speakers. “Three o’clock, five hundred meters.”
Frank spins his stake in his hand and he pulls his short sword out of it’s sheath. “What are you hearing?” All trace of good humor is gone from his voice. That’s why Bob hadn’t stopped hunting with him during those first few months on the road. When Frank is on, he’s on, and there aren’t many other people in the world Bob would trust to have his back like he does Frank.
“Moans,” Bob says. He hefts his axe up, making sure he has a sure grip on it. He definitely knows that sound; now if he could just remember where he’s heard that before. Stupid shitty memory.
“Like ‘idiots fucking in a cemetery’ moans or ‘zombies coming for our brains’ moans?” Brian asks. He shoves his stake into his back pocket and swings his crossbow off of his back. He’s locked and loaded in a manner of seconds, his quiver of extra bolts hanging off of his hip for easy and fast reloading.
“Neither,” Bob says. He motions for them to spread out a little, and both Frank and Brian flank him - Frank to Bob’s left and Brian to his right - letting Bob take the lead towards what he’s hearing. The moans totally aren’t sexual, and they aren’t quite as squishy sounding as zombies usually are.
Bob really, really fucking hopes they’re not going to be dealing with zombies. He hates dealing with zombies. The stench stays with a guy for weeks after fighting with a pack of those things.
They’re about two hundred yards away when the screams start. Those aren’t sexual either; they’re more like ‘tourist dying a bloody and painful death’ screams. All three of them automatically sprint towards the source, which takes them up and over the only hill in the area.
Bob is the first to crest the small rise and what he sees has him cursing seventeen different ways from Sunday.
At the bottom of the hill is a group of twenty shambling creatures with bumpy foreheads and sharp fangs deep in the throats of what were three teenagers. Bob suddenly remembers where he and Frank have seen those symbols before.
“Fucking shitty shit! Retreat!” He shouts as he turns. The zompires spotted him the moment he crested the hill, so there is no need for stealth. Clarity is all Bob can hope for now. “Frank, haul ass! We’ve got zompires. Brian, head or heart, both’ll ash them.”
Frank and Brian had reached the top of the hill about five seconds after Bob had, and they both send up their own wave of foul language when they take in the group of monsters dropping the three corpses and heading up the hill towards them. Fast. Brian takes aim with his crossbow and manages a good three shots before Bob grabs his arm and starts pulling him along after Frank. Who, for once, actually took Bob at his word and had sprinted off in the direction that they’d left the van.
“What the fuck, Bryar?” Brian snaps as they run. They’ve got half a cemetery between them and the van, and Bob isn’t so sure they’re going to make it. Fucking Seer, telling him to grab the fucking axe and not a crossbow. Bob is going to deck Smith when he next sees him.
“Zompires - vampire and zombie hybrids,” Bob says. “Frank and I had a run in with them just before San Fran. They’re just as fast and strong as vamps, and they’re three times harder to kill.”
“Oh, that’s just fucking awesome,” Brian says. “Who the fuck came up with a vampire-zombie hybrid?”
Bob doesn’t have a chance to answer before Brian’s foot catches the side of an overturned headstone and he goes flying out of Bob’s reach. His crossbow lands twenty feet in front of them.
“Shit,” Bob curses as he skids to a stop. Brian’s already climbing to his feet, but there are three of the creatures right behind them, so Bob turns without thinking and brings his axe up and into the first zompire to reach him.
His first swing manages to sever the arm off of the creature, and his back swing takes off its head before it can even gather the breath to growl. Before the ash clears, Bob is stepping through it to remove the head of the second zompire.
“Bryar, duck!” Brian shouts. Bob drops into a squat seconds before a bolt shoots over his head and lands point first in the third zompire’s heart.
Bob swivels on his feet and uses his squat to launch himself into another sprint. Brian is right beside him, and Bob hears the rest of zompires catching up to them. They’re almost to the gate, and Bob is praying Frank had had enough of a head start.
Fortunately, Frank had had the bright idea to back the van into the cemetery proper, and he has the side door open and waiting for them to jump in. Not thirty seconds after Bob lands inside the van with Brian following right behind him, Frank is speeding their way out of the cemetery, and leaving the zompires in the dust.
Literally. Frank had spun the tires a little on his take off.
“Thanks, Cupcake,” Bob says when the two of them finally separate themselves and get the door shut again.
“No problem, Princess,” Brian says. He has his phone out, and Bob knows he’s dialing Ray; Bob’s already grabbing his phone so he can call Howie. “Toro, shut up. You need to pack up and head back to the house right now. We ran into our problem.”
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Part 2
Author: saekokato
Fandom: Bandom (MCR, PatD, TYV, mentions of FOB, Cab), Popslash (BSB)
Pairing: Bob/Frank, Brian/Ray/Gerard
Rating: NC-17/NSFW
Word count: 11,589
Summary: Bob’s friends throw him a surprise birthday party. Except nobody invited the monsters.
Notes: Betas by the awesome roseclaw, and the super clever mahoni. For the Bob Bryar Thing-A-Thon over at thingama_bob. Part of roseclaw’s and my’s Slayer’verse. This story follows No Chain, No Lock (No Fear, No Doubt).
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Between a Wild Time and a Flat Line
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Bob fumbles for the knife in his pocket at the screams, dropping the bag of priceless books he and Frank had picked up for Brian in Tucson to the floor. The screams actually register as shouts along the lines of "Happy Belated Birthday, Bob!" about the same time as Bob finally manages to unearth the thing. Frank is on the floor next to the books, giggling his annoyingly screechy giggle.
Bob fucking hates his boyfriend.
"Bob! Why so fierce, Bob? There's nothing but love here!" Is the only warning Bob has before he has two armfuls of Brendon Urie.
For all of two seconds.
"Damn-it, Brendon. You are such a fucking idiot," Ryan grumbles as Spencer bodily pulls Brendon off of Bob. Luckily, Bob had only pulled the knife out and hadn't, oh, opened the blade or anything even mildly helpful in the face of a full body attack. Not that Bob would want to kill Brendon.
Maiming has crossed Bob's mind a time or two, though. The kid is entirely too open with personal boundaries.
"Bob could have killed you, Brendon. And I can't say I'd blame him," Ryan continues. He has his arms crossed over his skinny chest and is frowning at Brendon. Or, at least, frowning if Ryan ever made an actual facial expression. Bob would have been just as able to translate Ryan Ross as your average tree stump had the two of them not fallen into that trap by that coven of evil witches a year ago.
(Bob has learned, mostly from threats to his life by the various good witches he and Frank have worked with in the past half-decade, to always specify the difference between good and evil witches. Vicky-T may be beautiful, but Bob is more appreciative of her left hook than his is of her, admittedly awesome, breasts.)
"Relax, Ryan Rossy!" Brendon squirms from Spencer's grasp and proceeds to wrap himself around Ryan. "Bob loves me! Bob would never hurt me!"
"He would if I asked him to," Ryan informs Brendon. But he still wraps a fingerless gloved hand around Brendon's hip.
"Bob wouldn't!" Brendon attempts to stare Ryan down, even if the kid wouldn't know a good stare down if it bit him in the ass. Eyebrows do not wag or wiggle in a good stare down. Bob would know - he and Frank engage in enough of them.
"Bob would," Bob corrects. He puts his knife away and kicks a still giggling Frank in the side. "But I would demand doughnuts in payment."
"What if I said it was for the good of the world?" Ryan asks. Brendon had given up trying to match Ryan glare for glare and now had his head tucked onto Ryan's shoulder.
"And coffee," is all Bob says.
"Nice to see you're still such a sweetheart, Bryar." Brian pushes past the trio to pull Bob into a quick hug. Complete with a few manly backslaps.
“What’s so urgent about a birthday party, Schechter?” Bob asks. Because Brian should know better than to cry wolf. Next time Bob might just leave his ass to die by slime monster.
“I never said it was an emergency, Bryar,” Brian scoffs. At least Bob thinks that’s what the sound Brian makes is supposed to be. Obviously Brian’s been spending too much time with Gerard without supervision again. Bob is going to have to have another talk with Ray, especially to emphasize Rule #1.
(Rule #1: Never leave Brian and Gerard unsupervised for long periods of time unless proper distraction material is provided. Example: porn.)
“If you choose to interpret my message like that, it’s your own damn fault,” Brian says. “I am not responsible for your colossal apparitions.”
Yeah. Bob and Ray definitely need to have a long talk. Rule #2: Brian’s subscription to the OED is to remain null and void for the safety of all. Yes, Toro, even the demons.
“Whatever you say, Cupcake,” Bob says. “Now if this is a birthday party, where’s the fucking cake?”
“All in due time, man,” Gerard says from behind Bob. Despite all accounts to the contrary, Bob is not startled. Gerard’s grin has nothing to do with Bob’s not being startled. In fact, Bob knows it’s all for Brian, whom Gerard has saddled up next to. Those three, seriously. “You don’t need all that sugar, really. It’s bad for you.”
Bob glares at him and Brian both. “What is with you two? He won’t give me top shelf. You won’t give me cake. Ray is totally my favorite.”
“Thanks a lot, Bryar,” Ray says dryly. He puts his arm around Gerard’s waist. “I haven’t done anything to you, so why do you have to cause trouble for me?”
“Too much time with Iero,” Brian says. He leans against Gerard as he smirks at Bob.
Ray takes a moment to think about that. His nod of agreement has Frank, who had just climbed off of the floor, launching himself at Ray with a (not at all) fierce Iero war cry. The tackle sends Ray, Frank, and Gerard to the floor. Brian, having spent too much time around Wentz, had sidestepped Frank’s lunge.
Bob just punches Brian’s shoulder. “Fuck off, Cupcake. I have far too many stories of you being a complete dumbass waiting in the wings for your shit.”
“Oohh! Stories? What kind of stories?” Brendon asks. He sidesteps the flailing pile of limbs that is Ray, Gerard, and Frank to pop up at Bob’s side. “Are they fun stories that’ll make Brian blush and swear? Because Ray and Gee seem to have run out of them.”
“Oh my god, Brendon. Shut up!” Spencer groans. Brendon just smiles cheekily at him while Ryan looks long suffering. Considering Ryan had been dragged over by Brendon because the two were still attached, Bob figures Ryan has a right to look long suffering. Even if he and Spencer should be used to Brendon by now.
Bob knows the feeling.
“Yes, Urie, shut up,” Brian says. He sighs. “We don’t need to be egging Bob on.”
“Poor Brian - your life, so hard!” Bob says with a snicker.
“One day I will kill you and it will all be blamed on the werewolves, Bryar,” Brian warns. He even shakes his finger in Bob’s face. Bob is nice enough to not break it for him.
“Aww, Cupcake! Don’t be like that,” Bob says. He picks up and drops the duffle of books. They thump loudly against the hardwood. “Especially since I brought you gifts.”
“Isn’t that a little backwards?” Ryan asks. “What with this being your birthday party?”
“I like doing things backwards,” Bob says. “It keeps you people on your toes.”
“Ha! You just don’t want to admit you hadn’t figured out the surprise party,” Frank says. He’s giggling, and Ray is holding him in the air by his feet. Gerard is looking on with a calculating expression on his face, and Bob knows an epic tickle-tackle battle is about to begin.
At least they aren’t in a set of cramped vans this time.
“The monkey is all yours, Toro,” Bob says. He wants nothing to do with any epic battles at the moment. He wants friends, laughter, and cake. He motions Brian forward as he picks the duffle up again. “Lead the way, Schechter. Then we’ll get down to this party business.”
Brain rolls his eyes but leads the way through the rest of the people in the room - Mikey and his wife, Alicia, their east coast contact who was supposed to have been vacationing in Cancun, a couple of the local Decaydance crew, all the people Bob knows and is willing to trust, and all of whom who were watching Frank be an idiot with great glee - to the back hallway that leads from the living room to the kitchen-dinning room, the basement/gym doorway, and the study.
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“Do you have to egg them on?” Brian asks with a sigh. He starts unloading the duffle. Bob would help except for how Brian’s a pissy little bitch when his perfect organization system is messed up.
Also, it’s Bob’s birthday party. He’s allowed to be lazy.
“I have no idea what you are talking about,” Bob says. He leans back in Ray’s desk chair - the most comfortable of all the chairs in the room - and puts his feet up on the table in front of him. It’s a tiny little thing that only holds a lamp and shakes a little under the extra weight but holds up enough that Bob is pretty sure it won’t collapse under him.
It honestly looks like a coffee house café and a library threw up in this room. There are three long tables that you’d find in your average public library arranged in a triangle at the center of the room with a couple smaller personal desk style tables scattered around the fringes, and about ten different types of chairs pushed every which way. The walls are lined with built in bookcases that hold everything from ancient demon texts to last month’s X-Men release, and everything else in between.
Bob has no idea how Brian manages to get anything done in this room - Gerard is crazy enough to feel comfortable in here but Bob can only imagine Brian tearing out his hair in frustration over the chaos.
“You didn’t call us out here for a party,” Bob continues.
Brian shifts the seven hundred year old Rinae text back and forth between his hands for a couple of moments. Then he places it next to the well worn Joe Trohman Handy-Dandy Notebook.
(Brian certainly has a filing system. Mostly Bob thinks it’s ‘just toss a book on the shelf in a random order so that it looks like it’s in some preordained order’.
Brian is an asshole like that.)
“Yes and no,” Brian says. He moves Gerard’s Hellboy anthologies to the side and slides the latest edition of Merc’s Lies of Angels and Saints in its place. “Mikey, Alicia and Jamia were all visiting anyway, Ross, Urie and Smith are on their way through town, and everyone else has settled within a four hour drive. Not too hard to call everyone up and say, ‘Party!’”
“So this was Gerard’s idea,” Bob says. It’s either that or Frank is being a sneaky little shit again.
“Frank’s a sneaky little shit,” Brian confirms.
“He’s still pissed about New Years,” Bob sighs. Like it was Bob’s fault they’d ended up snowed in at a creepy but not at all supernaturally infected bed and breakfast in Wyoming for the week surrounding Bob’s birthday.
“Frank’s still pissed,” Brian agrees. He slides the last book into place. Then he picks up a couple of sheets of paper with Spencer’s and Gerard’s scrawls scribbled across them. “And then there’s this.”
Bob takes the papers and flips through them. He can’t read Gerard’s handwriting on a good day but given that Spencer’s own neat writing has jotted down a demonic language that Bob isn’t familiar with, Bob doesn’t think he could have read it anyway. There are a couple of sketches - symbols and odd patterns - that seem familiar lining the outside margins of all the pages. Bob can’t place them, but he knows them. Especially the little swirly thing that almost looks like quarter moon that grew fuzz. He tells Brian as much.
Brian shrugs. “We’ll figure it out. Smith said that it wasn’t urgent yet, so we’ve spent the last couple of days doing some basic research.”
“Business that slow?” Bob asks. Because they rarely have time to do days of basic research - the Snowflake Hellmouth may not be the most happening of Hellmouths but there is still usually something going on. For nothing to be happening is a really bad sign.
“Even Miguel’s kids have been perfect little darlings,” Brian sighs. He leans against one of the long tables - Frank swears they stole them from the public library and the way the accusation sends Brian into a muttering rage and Gerard into a pack a day habit, Bob’s willing to bet it’s mostly true - and crosses his arms over his chest. “Ray was actually looking at time shares. In Florida. Florida. Ray.”
Bob blinks. “You’re telling me this is the last birthday party I’ll ever have.”
“Yes, princess. Make this all about you,” Brain says. He throws a balled up piece of paper at Bob’s head.
Which Bob catches and lobs back at him. “You know what I meant, Cupcake.” Brian flips him off. “Other than Gerard’s and Spencer’s horrible handwriting, you have what exactly?”
“Not much.” Brian shrugs. “We think the vamp population is growing - not that we can really tell without going crypt to crypt, and I’ll thank you not to plant that idea in Gerard’s head - and there are a plethora of fresh bodies at the morgue but nothing else is out of the ordinary.”
“Except the quiet.”
“Except the quiet,” Brian agrees.
“Huh.” Bob rubs a hand over the back of his neck as he reads through the sheets again. Then he shrugs. “Yeah. I’ve got nothing.”
“Like I said, Smith says we have time,” Brian repeats.
“Well, if the Seer says so,” Bob drawls.
Brian rolls his eyes. “Shut up, Bryar. Like you know any better.”
Bob doesn’t but he isn’t about to tell Brian that. Or about the heavy feeling pooling in his gut.
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An indeterminate time later, after dinner and presents and the worst rendition of “Happy Birthday” Bob has ever been forced to endure, finds Bob catching up with Jamia, the east coast contact for the Decaydance crew and Brian’s little non-regulation Watcher group. Despite the occasional flare up of irrational jealousy - on Bob’s part. Who knew working with your boyfriend’s long ago ex would be so stress inducing? - Jamia is both excellent company and full of excellent ideas.
Mostly on the Frank wrangling front but Bob isn’t going to turn down any useful or pertinent advice.
“Tying him down doesn’t really help matters,” she’s telling him. They’re off to one side of the dining room with plates of birthday cake and far, far away from whatever crazy thing Frank is currently involved in with Brendon and Mikey. Bob really, really doesn’t want to know. He’d swear on a stack of whatever holy books Gerard happens to have scattered about the main floor of the house that he really, seriously doesn’t want to know.
Especially after he’d gotten a good look at the new picture of Mikey and Alicia in the living room. Apparently someone had talked someone else into attending a D&D conference at one of the hotels on the Strip, and Mikey had ended up with a trio of mini-apprentices. All of whom were in the background of the photo wearing costumes straight from fucking EverQuest. Brian says there’s a story behind all of that, but Bob just doesn’t want to know.
Bob nods. “I know. He was quiet for three days, then BAM. Right back at it.”
Jamia pats him on the shoulder. “Could be worse, Bryar.”
Bob snorts. “Yeah, you want to explain that to me, Nestor?”
“He could have been a vampire with a soul destined to return to Ultimate Evil should he have a single moment of happiness,” she says. Completely straight faced. If Bob were ever to list someone as his hero, her name would be Jamia Nestor.
“What?” Bob asks. Because, what? “Is Gerard working on a new comic?”
Jamia laughs. “No, worse: it’s true. The Slayer out in southern California? You know, the actual facts Slayer? Well, apparently she’s the one and only and forever of a vampire that’s going by the name Angel now.”
“Angel?” Bob asks. The name sounds vaguely familiar. Then again, it definitely fits southern California. Bob and Frank haven’t been back in that general direction since Brian sent them on that bogus ghost hunt in San Francisco.
“Yep. Angel is actually the vampire Angelus,” Jamia says. She stops and takes a bite of her cake, and raises an eyebrow at Bob.
Bob scowls at her. He hates it when people think he hasn’t done his research. It isn’t his fault he came late to the game. Considering he’d spent twenty years of his life not knowing that there was even a game to begin with, Bob thinks he’s doing a damn find job all around. “Angelus was that vampire in the twentieth century that pretty much spread destruction throughout most of Europe, wasn’t he?”
“Yep. He’s in LA now, fighting the good fight,” Jamia says. “Apparently he was cursed by some Romanian gypsies because he tortured and killed one of their favorite sisters or something. Then he and the Slayer fell in love or whatever - she was sixteen? Maybe? - and he went evil and she had to send him to a hell dimension for a while. Soap. Opera.”
Bob raises an eyebrow. “Yeah, sounds like it.” He takes a bite of his cake and ignores the sudden thump and shouts from the living room. He doesn’t want to know. “I think I’ll stick with Frank.”
“Good choice,” she says.
They finish their cake in companionable silence, watching as Ray races into the kitchen for paper towels and ice, then back to the living room. After a few minutes, Brian comes out of the living room holding the bridge of his nose and heading straight for the leftover cake, where he cuts himself a huge slice, and then joins Jamia and Bob.
“I think they might actually be worse than Wentz,” Brian says once he’s eaten half of his slice. He stares at it for a long moment with his fork raised before he drops the fork on the table and holds the plate out to Bob and Jamia.
“Not possible, and are you’re eyes too big for your stomach, Cupcake?” Bob asks. He cuts the cake into two mostly equal portions and gives the larger half to Jamia. “Also, I don’t want to know.”
“Bite me, Princess,” Brian says. “You really, really don’t. I liked that lamp, too.”
Bob and Jamia wisely say nothing as they finish their second helping of cake. It’s good cake, too. Lots of chocolate, whipped frosting, and sprinkles. Not exactly what Bob would have wished for - he knows Gerard and Brendon had to have been the primary persons involved - but still. Very, very tasty.
“So, Schechter,” Jamia says as she gathers up their plates and forks to take into the kitchen. Bob and Brian follow her on her way to the dishwasher. “Where’re all the people in town? I think every motel in the area is either empty or closed out for the week. And I didn’t see those kids you were talking about yesterday on my jog this morning.”
“Miguel’s brats?” Brian asks. He opens the dishwasher and takes the dirty dishes from Jamia to load them up. “They’re usually running around the house at all hours. Maybe Miguel finally grounded the little bastards.”
“Give it up, Cupcake. We all know you adore those kids,” Bob says. He’s staying far away from the cleaning - it’s his birthday party and he’s going to be lazy if he has to stake something - but his mind is actually on how easy it was to get through town earlier. Usually they hit every light in a four mile radius around Snowflake, and then there are all the people who are usually out and about. The second time they’d come through Snowflake, Frank had started giving points out for the most obnoxious walkers, talkers, and drivers they’d come across.
This time, Snowflake had been a virtual ghost town. The only thing missing had been the tumbleweeds.
“I think we need to sit Smith down and explain the difference between warnings and dates again,” Bob says. He really had been hoping for a few days off.
Brian closes the dishwasher with a thud, then turns to Bob. “You can’t be serious.”
“Sorry, Cupcake,” Bob says. He turns and leads Jamia and Brian towards the living room. “Party’s over.”
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Two hours later, they have everyone situated in the study. Gerard, Ray, and Brian are at a table on one edge of the triangle handing out reference materials and notepads to those that had volunteered to hit the books. Those volunteers include Gerard, Spencer, Ryan, Brendon, Jamia, Mikey, and the trio of Alexes that had followed Mikey and Alicia down from Vegas.
Gerard has everyone in that group separated into three smaller groups. Gerard, Mikey, and Jamia are looking over all of the research Brian and Ray have already cobbled together. Spencer, Ryan, and Brendon are looking into all of the prophecies that have anything to do with either Snowflake’s general geographical location or whatever Spencer has Seen that might have something to do with a normally thriving tourist town/Hellmouth suddenly making like a ghost town out of a bad horror film. The Alexes are scouring ever book they can lay hands on for any of the symbols or images on the paper that Brian had shown Bob.
Bob is sitting on one of the tables pushed against the far wall, and Frank is swinging around on the chair in front of him. The two of them, Ray, Brian, Alicia, Big Worm, and the group of four guys from Cortez, Colorado, just over the northeastern Arizona border, are the ones heading out into Snowflake for the up close and personal type of information gathering.
“I’ve had six Dreams over the last three months that have dealt with this set of symbols,” Spencer says. He’s pointing at the list of symbols and images that he and Gerard have put up on one of the room’s many white boards, some of which having been hastily erected over bookcases. “We haven’t had much luck as of yet locating any of these symbols in the normal texts. But Bob and Frank just delivered some texts that might be more helpful to us.”
“I’ve seen those symbols before,” Bob says. He has his latest journal out and he’s flipping through it as he speaks. Frank has the other four journals in his hands. They’re probably going to have to leave them here for Gerard to go through, but Bob figures he might get lucky. It’s unlikely, but weirder things have happened. “I can’t remember where.”
“I remember they mean bad news,” Frank says. He’s frowning at the whiteboard. “Just… Fuck.” He bounces the journals loudly against his knees.
“It’ll come to you; don’t push it,” Spencer says. He spares them both a quick grin when they glare at him in unison. “Trust me.”
Bob rolls his eyes and goes back to his journal. If there ever was a guy who knew what he was talking about when it came to minds and remembering shit, Spencer was probably it. Still, that didn’t mean Bob had to like it. He knows those symbols and he’ll thank his mind to cough up the memories sometime soon.
“Talk to us about the air around here,” the other Brian says. He’s one of the group of four from Cortez, and he’d told them all to call him ‘B-rok’ but Bob isn’t going to call anyone something that fucking stupid. He’s waiting for someone to use the guy’s last name so he won’t have to keep calling the guy, ‘the other Brian’.
(Also, Bob has a hard time calling a guy the same name as a character from fucking Pokemon. He doesn’t care how many times playing those stupid games has saved his sanity from the tedious boredom that is most of tour life, ‘Brock’ is a dumb fucking name.)
The other three guys had introduced themselves as AJ, Howie, and Nick. Apparently the four of them had helped Brian, Gerard, and Ray root out a nasty group of werewolves that had been feeding on tourists around the Four Corners.
“It’s dry and hot,” Brian says. Well, snaps. Brian is being extra snappy and sarcastic at the moment. “You don’t live that far north, Littrell.”
“He means, what’s been going on in the area the last couple of weeks,” Howie clarifies. He puts his hand on the arm of the skinny tattooed guy with the sunglasses, Bob thinks his name is AJ, to keep him from getting up.
“It’s been a creepy amount of silent in Cortez,” Nick says. He spins back and forth in his chair, only narrowly missing hitting Howie or Brian L., who are sitting on either side of him. “No demon uprisings, no spells gone wonky, no roving bands of werewolves looking to snack on the local cheerleaders. Even the local vamps have shut up. Quiet.”
Ray nods. “Same here. All of the usual troublemakers have been on their best behavior.”
“And the usual signs have been silent,” Gerard says. He’s sitting on the corner of the table closest to his brother and holding open a huge book that is about twice as wide as he is. “Eerily silent, too.”
“The usual signs will go off if a kid stumbles over a patch of newly grown hog’s wart,” Brian says before anyone has a chance to start asking about this sign or that sign.
“And town was practically empty when we came through this afternoon,” Frank says. “I didn’t even see the lady who’s always out in front of the library.”
“Mrs. Ellen, and she’s visiting her son for the month,” Brian says. He runs a hand through his hair. “We haven’t even had to really patrol in almost a week.”
“So, what you’re saying is that it’s been crazy quiet around here, and now all of the locals have fucked off,” AJ says. He points at Spencer. “And the Seer says he’s been having visions of mysterious symbols that both Bryar and Iero know but can’t place, and we - a large contingent of supernatural hunters - have just so happened to conveniently show up in the same place at the same time.”
Gerard nods. “Exactly.”
“So we’re fucked,” AJ says. He shares a dark look with Nick.
“I wouldn’t say that,” Gerard says. “We had quiet periods…”
“Exactly,” Brian interrupts. He smiles at Gerard. “Sorry, Gee, but Ray was looking at vacation homes in Florida. Florida.”
“Awesome. Where’s your weapons cache?” AJ asks. He looks over at Howie. “Did we bring the extra bags with us this time?”
“They’re all in the trunk, AJ,” Howie says. “You can go get it in a minute.”
“Spence?” Brendon asks. He climbs out of his chair and goes over to Spencer, who’s eyes have gone blank.
Great, another vision. Bob just hopes that this one will be more helpful than the last couple Spencer’s had.
The room stays silent as they wait for Spencer to come back to himself. Those on book duty are rustling through whatever they have in front of them, and everyone else is either shifting impatiently or checking whatever weapons they happen to have on them.
Bob spends the couple of minutes reading through the January and February entries in his journal. Somehow he doesn’t think that they’re going to be dealing with any malevolent ghosts this time around. Which is perfectly fine with him. He’s had enough fun being tossed around like a fucking ragdoll.
Finally Spencer’s eyes stop staring blankly into space and he sags against Brendon. “Scratch ghosts, werewolves, and any sprites, spirits, and pixies off of our list of baddies,” Spencer says, voice dry. “We’re dealing with something in the crypts.”
“That leaves vampires and about a thousand different demons,” Jamia says. She starts listing known crypt loving demons on a clean whiteboard, while the group on recon starts getting ready to leave.
“I didn’t see any identifying details, sorry,” Spencer says as Bob hands Gerard his journals. Gerard smiles sweetly at Bob, and Bob knows he’s going to regret letting Gerard anywhere near his private thoughts. If only Bob really had a choice in the matter. Stupid sense of responsibility.
“It’s okay,” Ray says. He’s spread a map over the long table closest to the door, and he’s motioning for the recon group to gather around it. As he talks, he points out the cemeteries he’s assigning to each group. “There are only three cemeteries in town. We’ll split into three groups: me, Alicia, and Worm in group one and tackling Morris & Sons. Group two will be Brian, Bob, and Frank at Grandview. And you four can take Wolfsbane.”
“At least we know the way,” Howie says as AJ mutters, “Fucking Wolfs & Bait.”
“Come on, McLean,” Brian says with a smirk. “Let me show you our cache.”
“Bryar!” Spencer says as the nine of them start filing out of the room. He grins weakly at Bob when Bob turns around. “Make sure you have your axe.”
Bob doesn’t blink at that, just nods and waves over his shoulder as he goes. Of course he isn’t going to forget his axe.
|-|
They’re halfway through their cemetery when they first hear the moans. Frank and Brian have been bitching about who’s idea it was for the surprise party - a conversation Bob could really live without having to hear - while Bob does his best not to end up with a black eye from one of Frank’s waving fists or as dinner from a vampire attracted to how loud Frank and Brian are being.
“Look, I’m telling you, I thought it up in Cleveland!” Frank says. Bob really doubts that, considering the last time they were anywhere near Cleveland was about six months before Bob’s birthday. “You’re just jealous, Schechter.”
“Yes, Iero, I’m so fucking jealous,” Brian says. He rolls his eyes as he steps around a particularly large and ugly tombstone. “Because you are not completely delusional. Oh, wait.”
“Shut up,” Frank says. He shakes his stake in Brian’s general direction. “Just because you couldn’t…”
“Frank. Quiet.” Bob stops dead in his tracks when he hears the moans. It’s a really low guttural sound, and Bob would have missed it if he hadn’t spent half a decade listening for similar sounds over crappy soundboards. He knows that sound, and it isn’t something you’d commonly hear over a club’s speakers. “Three o’clock, five hundred meters.”
Frank spins his stake in his hand and he pulls his short sword out of it’s sheath. “What are you hearing?” All trace of good humor is gone from his voice. That’s why Bob hadn’t stopped hunting with him during those first few months on the road. When Frank is on, he’s on, and there aren’t many other people in the world Bob would trust to have his back like he does Frank.
“Moans,” Bob says. He hefts his axe up, making sure he has a sure grip on it. He definitely knows that sound; now if he could just remember where he’s heard that before. Stupid shitty memory.
“Like ‘idiots fucking in a cemetery’ moans or ‘zombies coming for our brains’ moans?” Brian asks. He shoves his stake into his back pocket and swings his crossbow off of his back. He’s locked and loaded in a manner of seconds, his quiver of extra bolts hanging off of his hip for easy and fast reloading.
“Neither,” Bob says. He motions for them to spread out a little, and both Frank and Brian flank him - Frank to Bob’s left and Brian to his right - letting Bob take the lead towards what he’s hearing. The moans totally aren’t sexual, and they aren’t quite as squishy sounding as zombies usually are.
Bob really, really fucking hopes they’re not going to be dealing with zombies. He hates dealing with zombies. The stench stays with a guy for weeks after fighting with a pack of those things.
They’re about two hundred yards away when the screams start. Those aren’t sexual either; they’re more like ‘tourist dying a bloody and painful death’ screams. All three of them automatically sprint towards the source, which takes them up and over the only hill in the area.
Bob is the first to crest the small rise and what he sees has him cursing seventeen different ways from Sunday.
At the bottom of the hill is a group of twenty shambling creatures with bumpy foreheads and sharp fangs deep in the throats of what were three teenagers. Bob suddenly remembers where he and Frank have seen those symbols before.
“Fucking shitty shit! Retreat!” He shouts as he turns. The zompires spotted him the moment he crested the hill, so there is no need for stealth. Clarity is all Bob can hope for now. “Frank, haul ass! We’ve got zompires. Brian, head or heart, both’ll ash them.”
Frank and Brian had reached the top of the hill about five seconds after Bob had, and they both send up their own wave of foul language when they take in the group of monsters dropping the three corpses and heading up the hill towards them. Fast. Brian takes aim with his crossbow and manages a good three shots before Bob grabs his arm and starts pulling him along after Frank. Who, for once, actually took Bob at his word and had sprinted off in the direction that they’d left the van.
“What the fuck, Bryar?” Brian snaps as they run. They’ve got half a cemetery between them and the van, and Bob isn’t so sure they’re going to make it. Fucking Seer, telling him to grab the fucking axe and not a crossbow. Bob is going to deck Smith when he next sees him.
“Zompires - vampire and zombie hybrids,” Bob says. “Frank and I had a run in with them just before San Fran. They’re just as fast and strong as vamps, and they’re three times harder to kill.”
“Oh, that’s just fucking awesome,” Brian says. “Who the fuck came up with a vampire-zombie hybrid?”
Bob doesn’t have a chance to answer before Brian’s foot catches the side of an overturned headstone and he goes flying out of Bob’s reach. His crossbow lands twenty feet in front of them.
“Shit,” Bob curses as he skids to a stop. Brian’s already climbing to his feet, but there are three of the creatures right behind them, so Bob turns without thinking and brings his axe up and into the first zompire to reach him.
His first swing manages to sever the arm off of the creature, and his back swing takes off its head before it can even gather the breath to growl. Before the ash clears, Bob is stepping through it to remove the head of the second zompire.
“Bryar, duck!” Brian shouts. Bob drops into a squat seconds before a bolt shoots over his head and lands point first in the third zompire’s heart.
Bob swivels on his feet and uses his squat to launch himself into another sprint. Brian is right beside him, and Bob hears the rest of zompires catching up to them. They’re almost to the gate, and Bob is praying Frank had had enough of a head start.
Fortunately, Frank had had the bright idea to back the van into the cemetery proper, and he has the side door open and waiting for them to jump in. Not thirty seconds after Bob lands inside the van with Brian following right behind him, Frank is speeding their way out of the cemetery, and leaving the zompires in the dust.
Literally. Frank had spun the tires a little on his take off.
“Thanks, Cupcake,” Bob says when the two of them finally separate themselves and get the door shut again.
“No problem, Princess,” Brian says. He has his phone out, and Bob knows he’s dialing Ray; Bob’s already grabbing his phone so he can call Howie. “Toro, shut up. You need to pack up and head back to the house right now. We ran into our problem.”
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Part 2