Chapter two of "Apocalypse, Now and Then"
Previous story in this series: Even Archangels Get the Blues
Previous chapter in this story, "Apocalypse, Now and Then":
1. To Send a Message
Or see the series posted on Twisting the Hellmouth for both stories in their entirety.
Chapter Two: “Waste Not, Want Not”
Till old experience do attain
To something like prophetic strain.
John Milton, Il Penseroso, line 173
Still in the alley, somewhere in time and space . . .
“Hello again, Angel. Mind if we crash your party?”
Without waiting for an answer, the newcomer whirled in mid-air and rose ten feet straight up, so that all the winged men and women could see him as he shouted, “NOW!”
The oncoming army of demons, the front ranks of whom had hesitated briefly at the sudden appearance of winged reinforcements, raced forward once more with a wordless roar, bringing their own weapons and armor to meet the swinging swords and flying arrows.
Spike had gone from looking dumbfounded to annoyed to gleeful in the two seconds since their odds of surviving this fight had undergone a profound change, and now Angel saw that he was back to looking annoyed again, as the blond vampire finished off his first demonic opponent and looked in vain for a second enemy within arm’s reach who wasn’t already ‘taken’ by one of their allies.
Having done some quick calculations of his own and determined that the odds of persuading Illyria to retire from the field were nonexistent, Angel grabbed Spike’s arm as he was preparing to leap over several winged fighters to reach the new front line of the battle. “Spike!” he shouted over the noise of battle. “Spike, get Gunn out of this! He might have a chance, now. Don’t let him die here needlessly, if you can help it!”
Spike automatically shook off Angel’s grip before registering what he had said. Spike stared in mingled amazement and resentment at the older vampire. Angel could see various emphatic and colorful ways of telling him to go to hell forming on the blond vampire’s lips, but in the end all he said was, “Can’t Blue take care of Charlie?”
Angel shook his head, and then pointed to where Illyria was wading into a phalanx of oversized demons of a type he’d never seen before. She was already covered with several shades of blood, none of which appeared to be hers. Spike’s shoulders sagged slightly as he acknowledged, “Right, no Florence-Nightingalery from her anytime soon.”
Spike cast one more wistful look at the thick of the battle, before he turned to push his way to the side of the alley. Gunn was propping himself up against a wall there, in order to have enough strength to lift his axe and deflect the descending fist of an even-larger-than-usual Fyarl demon. Spike grabbed the Fyarl’s other arm before it could follow up with a right cross that would snap the former vampire hunter’s neck and used both hands and all his strength to twist it up behind the demon’s back, while shouting at Gunn to “Go for his knees!”
Spike was reaching above his own head as it was, in order to keep the huge Fyarl’s arm at the proper angle to incapacitate him, and there was no way that he could keep that leverage up one-handed. They needed to take the Fyarl down NOW, or it was going to wriggle out of Spike’s grasp and finish Gunn off before Spike could recover the sword he’d dropped when he leapt on the demon’s arm.
Gunn might have been too light-headed from loss of blood to avoid taking on a nine-foot Fyarl in the first place, but he was aware enough to follow Spike’s instructions and swing his axe at the back of the demon’s left knee, partially severing some tendons. Gunn couldn’t put much muscle into it at that point, but it was enough to bring the Fyarl stumbling to his knees, grunting in pain, with Spike still keeping his right arm locked to his back. At that height, Spike dared to take one hand off the Fyarl’s forearm for a moment, in order to grab Gunn’s axe with a muttered, “Sorry, Charlie; I’ll give it back in a sec.” Releasing the demon, Spike took a two-handed grip on the axe and swung it with all his strength at the Fyarl’s neck, almost completely severing the head from its body.
The demon corpse fell over, the head hanging on only by a bit of hide and tendon, and Spike turned to restore the axe to Gunn. However, Gunn wasn’t looking much better than the Fyarl, at that point. That last swing of the axe to cut the Fyarl down to Spike’s size seemed to have taken what remained of his fighting spirit, and he was sitting now, still with his back against the alley wall, holding the wound in his side, from which the blood was continuing to flow.
Gunn was going to bleed out very soon, if he didn’t get some kind of treatment. Spike’s vampire senses told him that much, between the smell of human blood all over the alley and the sound of Gunn’s heartbeat racing to try to make up for the blood loss.
The newest member of the ‘vampire-with-a-soul club’ silently cursed his own helplessness and ignorance. He’d never had much use for first aid himself, what with the vampire healing and all, and his experience with human blood loss was mostly geared toward causing it, not stopping it.
Still . . . he wasn’t completely without knowledge or resources. Spike turned a speculative glance on the newly slain Fyarl, and especially at the partially severed head. Using Charles’ axe to finish the decapitation, Spike carefully picked up the demon’s head and brought it over to where Gunn was now almost lying on the alley floor.
“I know this is disgusting, Charlie-boy, but ‘waste not, want not’, as me mum used to say.” Spike gently moved Gunn’s hand aside, until he could see the open wound in its entirety. Holding the Fyarl’s lifeless head directly over the wound by one tufted ear, he used his other hand to grab the bridge of the demon’s nose and squeeze with all his might. The mucus in the demon’s nasal passages, which had not yet had time to harden in response to the cessation of blood flow, poured out in a brief gush, just covering the wound and about an inch of surrounding skin. Spike squeezed again, but that appeared to be all the demon had left in him at that point. He just hoped it would be enough. The demon mucus hardened within moments of coming into contact with the air, and formed a sickly-green, cement-like seal over the hole in Gunn’s side.
Spike tossed the demon head carelessly over his shoulder and bent down to examine his handiwork. With all the blood already soaking Gunn’s clothes, he couldn’t tell by scent if the blood loss had been stopped, but at least he couldn’t see any more blood seeping out around the edges of his makeshift bandage, and the sound of Gunn’s heartbeat was starting to level off.
“Well, Charlie,” he said to Gunn, who seemed to be drifting in and out of consciousness, “we’ll still need to get you to a doctor right quick, but I think you’ll keep for a while, now. What should we call that, eh? I can’t think of anything clever to do with the word mucus, so I’m leaning toward ‘sticking plaster of snot’ myself. Care to weigh in on this?”
Gunn’s eyes flickered slightly, and he mumbled something that sounded like the words “payback”, “booger band-aid,” and “you jackass,” so Spike was satisfied that Gunn was still with him, mostly. Good enough.
Spike stood and took one final look at the battle that raged around them, noting that the fiercest fighting seemed to have moved toward the other end of the alley, and that Angel -- the selfish ponce! -- was in the thick of it, swinging his sword at the now-grounded dragon with obvious enthusiasm, side by side with the big poof in the red skirt who seemed to be in command of the party-crashers. Illyria was nowhere to be seen for the moment, but Spike was sure her need for more violence was being amply met, wherever she was.
“No more fun for Spike tonight,” he sighed, as he bent down to carefully pick up the semi-conscious Gunn and carry him to the nearest doorway leading off the alley. He kicked open the locked door and entered the storeroom beyond, looking for a clean, quiet place to let the man rest until the battle was over and they might be able to get to the hospital unimpeded . . . assuming that the good guys won, of course.
At least the cement ‘snot’ bandage was still holding. Maybe he should try to patent it?
Outside, the sounds of battle receded still further.
---------------------------
Chapter Three: War...What is It Good For?
Previous chapter in this story, "Apocalypse, Now and Then":
1. To Send a Message
Or see the series posted on Twisting the Hellmouth for both stories in their entirety.
Chapter Two: “Waste Not, Want Not”
Till old experience do attain
To something like prophetic strain.
John Milton, Il Penseroso, line 173
Still in the alley, somewhere in time and space . . .
“Hello again, Angel. Mind if we crash your party?”
Without waiting for an answer, the newcomer whirled in mid-air and rose ten feet straight up, so that all the winged men and women could see him as he shouted, “NOW!”
The oncoming army of demons, the front ranks of whom had hesitated briefly at the sudden appearance of winged reinforcements, raced forward once more with a wordless roar, bringing their own weapons and armor to meet the swinging swords and flying arrows.
Spike had gone from looking dumbfounded to annoyed to gleeful in the two seconds since their odds of surviving this fight had undergone a profound change, and now Angel saw that he was back to looking annoyed again, as the blond vampire finished off his first demonic opponent and looked in vain for a second enemy within arm’s reach who wasn’t already ‘taken’ by one of their allies.
Having done some quick calculations of his own and determined that the odds of persuading Illyria to retire from the field were nonexistent, Angel grabbed Spike’s arm as he was preparing to leap over several winged fighters to reach the new front line of the battle. “Spike!” he shouted over the noise of battle. “Spike, get Gunn out of this! He might have a chance, now. Don’t let him die here needlessly, if you can help it!”
Spike automatically shook off Angel’s grip before registering what he had said. Spike stared in mingled amazement and resentment at the older vampire. Angel could see various emphatic and colorful ways of telling him to go to hell forming on the blond vampire’s lips, but in the end all he said was, “Can’t Blue take care of Charlie?”
Angel shook his head, and then pointed to where Illyria was wading into a phalanx of oversized demons of a type he’d never seen before. She was already covered with several shades of blood, none of which appeared to be hers. Spike’s shoulders sagged slightly as he acknowledged, “Right, no Florence-Nightingalery from her anytime soon.”
Spike cast one more wistful look at the thick of the battle, before he turned to push his way to the side of the alley. Gunn was propping himself up against a wall there, in order to have enough strength to lift his axe and deflect the descending fist of an even-larger-than-usual Fyarl demon. Spike grabbed the Fyarl’s other arm before it could follow up with a right cross that would snap the former vampire hunter’s neck and used both hands and all his strength to twist it up behind the demon’s back, while shouting at Gunn to “Go for his knees!”
Spike was reaching above his own head as it was, in order to keep the huge Fyarl’s arm at the proper angle to incapacitate him, and there was no way that he could keep that leverage up one-handed. They needed to take the Fyarl down NOW, or it was going to wriggle out of Spike’s grasp and finish Gunn off before Spike could recover the sword he’d dropped when he leapt on the demon’s arm.
Gunn might have been too light-headed from loss of blood to avoid taking on a nine-foot Fyarl in the first place, but he was aware enough to follow Spike’s instructions and swing his axe at the back of the demon’s left knee, partially severing some tendons. Gunn couldn’t put much muscle into it at that point, but it was enough to bring the Fyarl stumbling to his knees, grunting in pain, with Spike still keeping his right arm locked to his back. At that height, Spike dared to take one hand off the Fyarl’s forearm for a moment, in order to grab Gunn’s axe with a muttered, “Sorry, Charlie; I’ll give it back in a sec.” Releasing the demon, Spike took a two-handed grip on the axe and swung it with all his strength at the Fyarl’s neck, almost completely severing the head from its body.
The demon corpse fell over, the head hanging on only by a bit of hide and tendon, and Spike turned to restore the axe to Gunn. However, Gunn wasn’t looking much better than the Fyarl, at that point. That last swing of the axe to cut the Fyarl down to Spike’s size seemed to have taken what remained of his fighting spirit, and he was sitting now, still with his back against the alley wall, holding the wound in his side, from which the blood was continuing to flow.
Gunn was going to bleed out very soon, if he didn’t get some kind of treatment. Spike’s vampire senses told him that much, between the smell of human blood all over the alley and the sound of Gunn’s heartbeat racing to try to make up for the blood loss.
The newest member of the ‘vampire-with-a-soul club’ silently cursed his own helplessness and ignorance. He’d never had much use for first aid himself, what with the vampire healing and all, and his experience with human blood loss was mostly geared toward causing it, not stopping it.
Still . . . he wasn’t completely without knowledge or resources. Spike turned a speculative glance on the newly slain Fyarl, and especially at the partially severed head. Using Charles’ axe to finish the decapitation, Spike carefully picked up the demon’s head and brought it over to where Gunn was now almost lying on the alley floor.
“I know this is disgusting, Charlie-boy, but ‘waste not, want not’, as me mum used to say.” Spike gently moved Gunn’s hand aside, until he could see the open wound in its entirety. Holding the Fyarl’s lifeless head directly over the wound by one tufted ear, he used his other hand to grab the bridge of the demon’s nose and squeeze with all his might. The mucus in the demon’s nasal passages, which had not yet had time to harden in response to the cessation of blood flow, poured out in a brief gush, just covering the wound and about an inch of surrounding skin. Spike squeezed again, but that appeared to be all the demon had left in him at that point. He just hoped it would be enough. The demon mucus hardened within moments of coming into contact with the air, and formed a sickly-green, cement-like seal over the hole in Gunn’s side.
Spike tossed the demon head carelessly over his shoulder and bent down to examine his handiwork. With all the blood already soaking Gunn’s clothes, he couldn’t tell by scent if the blood loss had been stopped, but at least he couldn’t see any more blood seeping out around the edges of his makeshift bandage, and the sound of Gunn’s heartbeat was starting to level off.
“Well, Charlie,” he said to Gunn, who seemed to be drifting in and out of consciousness, “we’ll still need to get you to a doctor right quick, but I think you’ll keep for a while, now. What should we call that, eh? I can’t think of anything clever to do with the word mucus, so I’m leaning toward ‘sticking plaster of snot’ myself. Care to weigh in on this?”
Gunn’s eyes flickered slightly, and he mumbled something that sounded like the words “payback”, “booger band-aid,” and “you jackass,” so Spike was satisfied that Gunn was still with him, mostly. Good enough.
Spike stood and took one final look at the battle that raged around them, noting that the fiercest fighting seemed to have moved toward the other end of the alley, and that Angel -- the selfish ponce! -- was in the thick of it, swinging his sword at the now-grounded dragon with obvious enthusiasm, side by side with the big poof in the red skirt who seemed to be in command of the party-crashers. Illyria was nowhere to be seen for the moment, but Spike was sure her need for more violence was being amply met, wherever she was.
“No more fun for Spike tonight,” he sighed, as he bent down to carefully pick up the semi-conscious Gunn and carry him to the nearest doorway leading off the alley. He kicked open the locked door and entered the storeroom beyond, looking for a clean, quiet place to let the man rest until the battle was over and they might be able to get to the hospital unimpeded . . . assuming that the good guys won, of course.
At least the cement ‘snot’ bandage was still holding. Maybe he should try to patent it?
Outside, the sounds of battle receded still further.
---------------------------
Chapter Three: War...What is It Good For?