Better Buffy Fiction Archive Entry

Home

Quicksearch
Search Engine
Random Story
 

Catching the Westbound


by Puca Dentata


"All around the water tank
waitin' for a train
I'm a thousand miles away from home
just a'standin' in the rain"
.........Hobo poem

Part One

The blond man leaned back against the chain link fence. It was dark, moon hidden behind the clouds, so he hadn't the slightest concern that a security guard would see him in the spot he had chosen, a nearby wall cutting away any illumination from the dim spotlights mounted on tall poles lining the yard. He reached into his coat pocket, fishing out a pack of cigarettes. He lit one, slowly exhaling a stream of smoke. He could hear a thrumming, signaling that a late night train would soon be arriving. Cocking his head, he could soon discern the rhythmic rumbles of the huge machine. Suddenly a light cut through the darkness, illuminating the length of track before it. A whistle shrilled, mounting as it slowly pulled closer. The train squealed and hitched as it slowly stopped with an almost painful grind. If he had not been a vampire, he would almost certainly have missed the thud of a door sliding open under the final screeching and rattles of the arrival. He might have even missed the three dark figures that cautiously eased out of a boxcar too his right.

He quickly dropped his cigarette to the gravel, crushing the ember beneath his heel. He ruefully smiled, tight-lipped, at what he was doing. Not too long ago, he would have done the same thing, as too not alert potential prey to his presence. Now he did it so that he would not chance becoming potential prey. (You have to love bloody modern technology. Computers chips and the like. Shit.)

He narrowed his eyes slightly as the three figures approached his hiding spot. He slowly knelt. As he curled back into the shadows, one of the figures tripped, and a decidedly feminine giggle could be heard. Yeah, now he could see.....two females, one male. Young.

"Shut up, Meagan. You want guards to catch us?" This from the second female. As they passed on his right, he could smell alcohol. "Awww, lighten' up," The first girl, Meagan replied. "Can you just DIE to think of ever-ones face when we tell 'em we took a train to get here?" Her male companion chuckled, while her female one pushed her playfully. (Hell, they are all soddin' plastered off their asses.)

Spike remained in his hunched-over position until the sound of their feet on the gravel died away. Then he slowly stretched his legs out before him, settling against the fence again. He glanced down at his hand, and then began to study the nails. The black nailpolish he perpetually wore was nearly all chipped away, leaving merely a few flakes sporadically coating his nails. He frowned, rubbing the nails of his left hand along the palm of his other. He looked back up, the dark cavern of the opened boxcar door drawing his attention. And he remembered the last time he had ever been in such a place.......

Spike sauntered along the narrow tree lined road that ran parallel to the train yards. He stopped to glance up and down the dingy main street, until his eyes landed on a lighted window with the words "Pink Owl Saloon" stenciled across it in bold red lettering. Grinning, he thrust his hand into the pocket of his trousers, yanking out a fistful of coins. "Oh! What's this, mates? A beer? You don't say? But I mustn't! I ain't that type of bloke, you see. I'm upstanding." Sniggering at his own joke, he jingled the dollar or so in change in his cupped hand as he walked towards the bar, the deep purple sky still glinting off of shop windows and automobiles.

It was 1934.

He and Dru had been in the states for almost three years now, currently calling Boston their home. However, at the moment he was not with Drusilla. She was still in the flat in Boston. He was in Bloody....well, honestly, he didn't know. Some quaint little shit of a town named after the first wanker to settle there, Spike was sure.

He had left their flat about three weeks ago. Every ten years or so, give or take, Dru would go through a period, a month perhaps, when she would refuse to be near spike. He wasn't quite sure why. (She blames you on some level for Angelus leaving, but don't think of that. Don't) At first, he refused to go, but he soon learned that if he stayed, she left. And managed to bring all sorts of elaborate dangers and situations upon herself. He had tried to tie her down during such an episode, but she become laconic, refusing to eat, sleep, and worst of all, even acknowledge his presence. So he left.

Was he currently worried, sitting at the worn, scratched bar in some small town near the Wisconsin/Minnesota border? Not really. By this time, there had been at least five such episodes. He knew the signs, he knew how to handle them. He would place her in the care of minions, and take off. He trusted them. At least he did after telling them he would force their hands through meat grinders if any harm should come to his princess.

And Spike actually did, to one. He came back home once, when they were living in Italy, to overhear that a minion had let Dru out of her sight one evening during a downpour. Drusilla had left the mansion, to be found three hours later naked under a tree. She was clutching a wooden stick horse in one hand, crooning a song to it. So they had bundled her back home, hoping that Spike would never hear of the event. He would not have, if the stupid git had not mentioned her relief of not being found out to another vampire when Spike was on the premises.

So he pushed both of the minion's hands through a meat grinder. It was enjoyable. Dru also liked it. "Pretty colors", she had remarked.

He was curious what Dru did while he was away on these interludes of his, and was surprised, delighted, and dumbfounded when he was told that besides playing with her dolls and dancing to music only she could hear, ("It's the lightening-bugs, my Spike, they are serenading the moon tonight! Isn't it lovely? Dance with me!") she asked every night where Spike was, and that she missed him. And when he came back she would throw herself at him, demanding to know why he had been so bad and mean as to leave her alone. Then they would spend a few days in bed. Or on the floor. Or on a table. So why did she have him leave? Spike could only shake his head and chalk it up to his Dru being Dru.

Which led to his being in this rustic tavern. When Dru had demanded his departure this time around, he really had no idea where to go. There was a depression going on. Yes, he had known that when he had suggested that they go overseas again, after Spain had become stale. But he had unsoundly thought that they would not be affected by it, being what they were. Food wise, it was quite a lucrative decision, with the hordes of homeless and forgotten. But entertainment? Fun? Bloody poor fun, at best.

He had managed to ignore it in the city, to a certain degree. He was good at ignoring certain things when setting his mind to it. He had foresight enough, having moved to the states right after the stock market crash, not to put any money in the banks. Not that he and Dru had much, but it was something. That was an intelligent move on his part that he still congratulated himself on. Forsight was not something he was renowned for. He and Dru would probably be living in a crypt right now, instead of the smart flat they occupied. Spike read and heard about the soup kitchens popping up everywhere, people wrapped around the block for a loaf of bread. Many were jumping to join the military. Anything to get away from the grey lacquer that had seemed to settle over cities and small towns alike.

Spike had earned his moniker over 50 years earlier. He was no stranger to the railways of England. While he rarely rode on one, he found varied and easy pickings from the plethora of passengers, immigrants, workers, and scum that could be found teeming around the stations. And as for the engines themselves? Now that was bloody glorious!

Now the railways of America were awash with the poor. Hoboes, as they were called. And surprisingly, a great number were teenagers. Some left home because they felt they were a burden to their families; some fled homes shattered by the shame of unemployment and poverty. Some left because it seemed a great adventure. Spike thought it all highly amusing.

So Spike decided, after noticing a group of young men hop an engine one evening while he was on a stroll, that perhaps he might join these ragtag individuals that traveled across the nation in search of employment. Be a change of pace. After all his years with Angelus and all Angelus' finery and high society tastes, Spike was more than willing to slip back in a more "rustic" why of life, albeit if only for a month or so.

So soon after, armed with a bag containing a blanket, a knife, and not much else, Spike found himself preparing to hop a train headed east. He'd travel at night, and do what he had to to be safe during the day. The danger of it excited him. (Yeah, and Dru won't mind if I come back in a bloody envelope. She can use me for stuffing a new doll. Miss Spike. ) He was ready to enjoy a short stint as a vagabond. He grinned, pushing back the billed cap he wore. Damn, what a fun word. Bloody delicious the way it rolled off the tongue. He had strode forward, more than ready to invoke mayhem upon the varied railways of the United States. And three weeks later had found himself sitting on a stool at the Pink Owl.

Part Two

Do people really need to be able to access salt and vinegar potato chips at eleven o' clock at night? Throw cushions? Goddamn trinkets like singing, wriggling plastic fish mounted on plywood boards as a trophy to innate human stupidity?

Apparently so, since megastores like this exist on every soddin' block, it seems.

Spike sauntered into the Super-K, pausing only momentarily to sight out the cosmetic section of the store. Now, cosmetics had always fascinated him to no end. The things these modern women did to make themselves more appealing to their male wankers! He coughed laughter at the sight of mascara neatly lining the wall. Hell, he didn't know a single female who didn't wear the shit. Must be hard for them to believe that women managed to snag men for centuries upon centuries before the stuff was invented. Drusilla wore makeup. How someone as.....challenged as she was could manage to put that eye- crud on and not stab her self in the eye is beyond me. She had used mascara to streak her dolls hair more than once. And Spike's, when sleeping. She had perched on the edge on the tub as he bent over the sink, scrubbing his hair free of the tarlike gunk. "Why did you do that, luv?" He had asked, eyes clamped shut in reflex to both the soap and the mild peevishness he felt towards her at the moment.. She had simply shrugged. "Pebbles. I found a pebble in the foyer." As if that explained the occurrence. Hell, said as if it was the answer to that age old question, how many angels can dance on the head of a pin?

Yeah, it was bloody amazing, the strange concoctions that were produced and pushed at women in this era.

Well, 'cept for peroxide. That was a lucky development in the art of hair care.

He continued down another aisle until he spotted what he wanted. Rows of nail color lined a display, candy colors in all shades. He saw the shade he wanted, warily eyeing the sparkled pink and shimmery green that flanked it.

He held the bottle up as if about to toast the cardboard woman that hovered over the display. "Midnight Sin. God, what a nancy-boy name!" He muttered out loud, eliciting a giggle from a young woman further down the aisle. He looked over at her. Typical college sorority fluff. Type of git he would happily have drained when his body was not a slave to his mangled brain. God, scrawny little thing, she was. He preferred a bit more curves on his women, not the androgynous creatures that defined beauty today. Funny, since Dru was a tiny thing, herself. But until the second decade or so of this century, when the Roaring Twenties hit, a bit of extra weight was deemed extremely alluring by society. These modern, insectlike women would have been pitied by their soft, dimpled predecessors. It was quite simple. Before this century, if a woman was that thin, it meant that she was not eating well. She was probably lower class and perhaps sickly. Women with a few curves were deemed attractive because they were healthier, more likely to be middle or upper class. Now, starving ones self was regarded with pride, while curves were looked down upon as the product of laziness. Go figure.

Spike's thoughts were interrupted by a rough shove that left him grabbing a shelf for balance. A glowering, burly man passed him... no doubt the girl's boyfriend. The large man turned and glanced back at the slighter one, daring him to say anything. Spike chose to adopt a look of amused boredom. (I'll take this bloody bottle and stick it so far up your ass than it becomes lodged in your fucking teeth, wanker.) Spike turned back to the display with this thought. After a long pause, the other man guided his girlfriend away.

"I hope your bloody armpit gets stuck in the revolving door on the way out, mate." Spike snorted. He looked around casually, and with much practiced ease slipped the small container into his duster pocket. He headed back towards the exit, passing the girl and her boyfriend again. "Hey punk!" The man called after him. Spike ignored him and continued on.

Punk. Yeah, whatever. People called him punk all the time. Either as an insult or as a means of defining his style. He bet most of them did not know the original meaning of that word. Spike did.

Glancing up and down the narrow room, Spike noticed that he was the only one of his kind presently in the dim bar. His kind being the tattered, smudged, worn of appearance that would mark him as a train-hopper to those who were not. Hoboes were common enough a sight these days, as they shuttled back and forth the nation looking for work. In summer, hoboes followed the harvests in the West. A fellow might start with the hay harvest in California and the Rocky Mountain states in early summer. Later on there was corn and wheat in the Mid-West; and in the early fall, hops, berries and fruits in the North-West. Winter might be spent in the cotton fields of Texas and the South-West. In early spring, a one could drift into Southern California for the vegetable and citrus crops.

Not that Spike was doing that. He was following this looping path with the others because that was what was done. It was an age old cycle whose irony was not lost upon him. The predator follows along with the migration of the herd, the prey. Plus, following the harvests meant that when he killed, he had more of a chance to find money on the corpse. Not that it was ever much. Whole families were trying to survive on three dollars a week. But it was enough to get a beer now and then, and his tobacco, if he struck it lucky, as he had earlier.

He had wedged himself beneath the flaked seat of a rusty hulk of old farm machinery that morning, wrapping himself snugly in the folds of his grey blanket. Crickets had chirped him awake later that day, just as the sun dipped behind the horizon, streaking the sky with pink swirls. He had wriggled out of his hiding place, stretching, delighted by the crackling of his spine that had resulted. A mile away he could see the roof of faded barn. Beyond that, a whitish 2-story home. Grinning, he began to whistle as he straightened his cap and strode through the fields towards a warm dinner, young grasshoppers leaping away from his approach like splashes of solid rain.

THUMP THUMP. A tired looking woman had answered the door, rubbing chaffed knuckles along her temple. Her mouth tightened when she saw the young man in front of her, a sunny grin on his face. Before he opened his mouth in a greeting, she cut him off. "No food, no handouts. We have barely enough for ourselves." It was common practice for a hobo to go door to door, asking for work in exchange for a bite to eat.

Spike had just stood there, a grin still stretching the skin of his jaw. The woman arched her eyebrows at him, and began to turn. But before she had the chance to shut the door, Spike had slid his hand into the opening. The woman found herself eye to eye with him, through the door cracked open roughly 5 inches.

"Ah, say now, ma'm. Let me say m' piece. Where's the Christian in you?" Even though this action could be taken as a warning of danger, his demeanor was friendly, soft, even. He pulled his lips down into a pout. "I just wanted a shower. That's all, ma'm. I'll do whatever chore you like." He smiled again, a charismatic, blazing grin that had led to the deaths of dozens upon dozens of humans.

"You will have to ask my husband. He will be home soon." Her face had lost its hard edge of suspicion. He also fancied that he saw some guilt in her eyes. Just mention Jesus and they rolled right on over for you. Heaven. Shit. He was more than willing to help them along the path. "I'll just sit a spell out here, then, ma'm", he continued in his good 'ol boy tone. "Thank you much." He bowed and tipped his dusty cap, gazing up through a dark tumble of hair to catch her eyes with his. She smiled and clucked her tongue at him. He had her now. "Ah, goodness. So come on in already. You can shower up. No harm in that."

"Thank you, ma'm. That's right kind of you." He carefully shut the door behind himself. He paused to look back across the yard, towards the clucking chickens littering the bare earth next to an open coop. He was their Jesus now. Smiting their enemies. He chuckled out loud as he pulled the bolt through the lock.

Two hours after entering the bar, four after awaking, Spike decided he had better head back to the train yards if he planned to make some miles before dawn. He was reasonably sure no one would connect him to the six bodies that littered the farmhouse and barn. He had used their blood to scrawl "Equal rights for chickens!" on the white walls of the house. The mental image made him guffaw, along with the giddy feeling caused by the alcohol. Customers twisted their heads around to see what he was laughing to himself about. Still giggling he left, dark scowls following him through the door into the darkness.

He silently retraced his steps to the yard, pausing to make out chalk scrawls on an old wooden pole next to the fence. Hobo signs, the hidden language of the armies of homeless that traveled by train. A single vertical slash graced the pole. To hoboes, it read, "doubtful". Yeah, the people of this burg were more miserly than most these days. He had been the only hobo he had seen since arriving. He grinned, knowing that after the grisly remains east of town were discovered, the next hoboes stopping here might well be lynched. He was sure the townsfolk would liken it to a hobo killing. Damn, he'd like to be privy to that welcoming party .He continued on.

Soon another mark would probably be chalked where hobo eyes would see it. Three angled slashes. "Danger. This is not a safe place. Leave now."

Part Three

Spike trotted into the darkened yard, scanning for guards, or "bulls", as the rail-hoppers called them. Seeing and hearing nothing he walked towards the engine that would soon be departing. Almost instantly he heard the crunch of gravel behind him. Even though he gave no outwards signs, he tensed. He grinned, a flash of white in the darkness, when he realized there was only one behind him.

He slowed his pace, trying to draw the man behind him closer. He expected he would be punched from behind. Spike relished the fear in their faces when he would turn slowly after the blow, a grin stretching his lips to almost a mad grimace as his fangs slid from his gums .

He tensed, sensing the man behind him had begun to make his move. He was not all prepared though when a wire yanked his head back, painfully grinding the bones together. "Bloo-" He gasped as barbs entrenched themselves into his flesh. He could smell the blood as it began to flow, pooling at his collar and seeping into the dirty fabric. Barbed wire. Shit.

He let himself fall backwards , grabbing a fistful of the man's coat on either side as they staggered backwards so that he could not slip away. Spike arched back up quickly, swinging both hands behind him swiftly, forming a fist behind his back. He threw himself downwards, aiming for the stomach below him.

The man below him tried to curl up into a ball, gasping as all breath was knocked from him. Spike briskly stood, back still to the man. He...was...pissed...off. It was not like he had a change of clothes, for bloody-fucking-hell. It was insufferable.

Spike realized that the coil of barbed wire was still twisted around his neck. Mindless of his hands, he unsnagged it from his neck with a snarl, his demon mask swelling from his features in a ripple. He turned, a capricious gleam to his eyes as he licked at the new welts and tears along his fingers.

The man on the ground, a guard, specifically hired to keep bums off of the trains, had risen and had begun to slide a club from his belt. He halted as he saw the now unearthly face before him. Neither said a word, the only sound a faint trickling dribble as the guards bladder loosened. The smell of urine permeated the air.

Spike walked up to the man. Sometimes fear did that to people. Froze them like that. He had always wondered what separated the fighters from the ones who froze. Spike placed a hand on either shoulder of the man in an almost tender gesture. The man was gasping, hyperventilating. Sweat was gathering at his temples. Spike had always been curious why some ran, some fought, and others just stood like this, knowing they were to die. Yet not moving. Angel would probably have come up with some soddin' poetic malarky about the victim accepting this fate. Bunk. Ah, well. Think about it later. There's a spot of fun to be had right now. Why question anything as glorious as this shuddering beings response to you?

"The name's Spike, mate." This as he pushed the man to the ground and plopped down onto his chest. "Seeing as how I used to find all types of peculiar ways to merge the human body with the railway spike, it's rather fitting, eh?" Spike tapped the man's forehead. He was rewarded with a low moan. "Ah! There's life in the wanker yet. No piss though, eh? Not very manly of you." Spike shrugged. Not life for long, but hey? Why tell the bloke that. Spike was a nice guy, took other's considerations into account. Spike stood, and leaning over, shoved the man onto his back. The guard seemed to gain a feel for self preservation at last and tried to scramble away. Spike sat back down on the man's back. The guard had begun to blubber.

Humming, Spike searched the man's pockets until he found a handkerchief. Spike grabbed the man by the front of his hair, painfully yanking his head back. "Open wide." Spike shoved the fabric in the man's mouth, and taking one end of the barbed wire, wrapped it around the guard's head and through his slightly open mouth to hold the fabric in place. He then trailed the wire down the man's back, twisting it snugly around both wrists. The guard, now that real pain was involved and not just a promise of it, began to struggle with much more zeal, but stopped as soon as he realized that any movement caused the barbs to dig deeper into his flesh.

Spike stood up and looked around. He spotted the lantern the man must have been carrying before he saw Spike. Spike retrieved it, and leaning over once more, grasped the man by the back legs and began to drag him to a dark corner of the yard. The man groaned and winced in pain with each tug and bump, trying to talk to Spike through the gag. "You know, the more you try to talk, the more yer face gets cut up by that wire. Be my guest, try to yabber all you want if you find it that enjoyable. I'm only looking out for you, chum." Spike giggled. His anger had left his body. Locked up for the night and wandered off. He was giddy as hell now, and saying rather foolish things in his glee. Spike finally stopped near some bushes. "This should do it mate." And in a singsong voice, "Cozy cozy cozy."

Spike shrugged his bag off his back and rummaged through it until he found his knife. He held it up for the man to see. "Beauty, ain't she?" He continued conversationally, disregarding the plea in the guard's eyes. "The final version will not be as artistic as if I had used railroad spikes. Not quite the statement. But then, there is something to be said about the virtues of the past, I suppose. Some people express feelings through poetry. Me, I enjoy torturin'. Never thought you'd end your life as an alliteration? Pity you won't be able to see the finished product. Might have liked it, mate."

Spike brought the knife down over the sobbing man's chest. "Shhhhh... sit back and enjoy the ride, mate. You have nothing else to do."

Part Four

After Spike finished rolling his cigarette, he stood up and walked over to the body to give his work one last once-over. The railway guard had been gutted. His chest cavity was now an empty hollow, the ribs stretched wide by the metal lantern shoved inside. The lantern was lit, the yellow light reflecting wetly off the gristle and bones inside the man's chest.

Spike crouched down in front of the corpse, and began to button the man's shirt up, leaving the top few buttons undone to let the heat out. Now the man's entire chest glowed dimly. A human firebug of sorts. Dru would have loved it. A pang of guilt flooded Spike. He had been gone three weeks and was still headed west. Boston was far away. At this rate, it would certainly be longer than a month before he returned to Boston. And he missed his princess. Well, he had to leave now, what with this gleaming, torn evidence in front of him. The next train leaving was going West. He'd hop it, and next stop, he'd start heading back East.

Spike stood, and walked over to a pile of clothing. He had stripped the top layers of his threadbare garments off when he had begun to carve the guard up. Contrary to popular belief, hoboes were not, for the most part, thieves and killers. They were everyday folks doing what they had to for survival. Spike could appreciate that. Thing was, if he hopped a train covered in blood that was so obviously not his own, and ran into hoboes, he would be in a whole heap of trouble. Being shoved out a moving train and landing under the wheels was not something he would heal from. Hoboes would do that to him. He had seen it done before. They had this bloody honor system thing 'bout not murdering or stealing. Uhhhgg. So he had stripped down to nearly nothing. His undershirt was now tacky with blood, so he stripped it off before covering his chest with the layers of worn clothing he had taken from various hoboes along his journey. A tattered shirt was small price for the joy of carving an early-season jack o' lantern.

Spike ambled over to the chosen train and walked down the line until he saw a likely looking boxcar. Checking both ways to make sure the coast was clear, he boosted himself into the car. The inside of the car smelled of pine tar and creosote. He settled himself into a dark corner and pulled his cap down over his eyes a bit, snuggling down into his hodgepodge of sweaters and shirts. Fall would be here soon. The freight, with a roaring whistle, jerked to a start. He could see the red and green lights of signal lanterns, but not the men who wielded them. The boxcar began to creak and shake as if in complaint that it was forced to carry such a nasty individual.

Slowly, almost painfully, the train began to pick up speed. It was no longer inching along at the pace of a slow walk, it was now hitching along at a slow run. They were out of the yards now, nearing the western edge of the small town.

Suddenly Spike heard pounding footsteps outside the boxcar. He warily crawled to the entrance, hazarding a look around the edge. Had some bloke, having found the corpse, somehow discovered his hideout?

No. It was another hobo, running along, trying to keep pace with the open car so that he could throw himself inside. When he saw Spike's face peer around the edge of the open compartment he shouted. "Hey buddy! Gimme a hand, huh?!"

Spike was reluctant to move. Should he? Aww, hell. Why not? It was only one small guy, smaller than himself if he was judging his appearance right. If he gave him any trouble, it was nothing Spike could not handle. He had eaten and played. He was content for the moment. He was in no mood for anymore tonight. Probably.

Spike reached his pale hand out to clutch a grubby one, and fortune grabbed it to pull himself inside the clanking boxcar headed West.

Spike was back at the yards. You kill, you do it right. You screw someone, you do it right. You brood about the past and trains, you go back to the yards and do it right.

He had also stolen some whisky. More than some actually. Quite a hefty amount. A liter. Spike tipped back the half empty bottle. He took a long swig, and lowering it, saw a rat scurry it's way across the open expanse of gravel nervously, no doubt wary of the lousy homeless cats to be found in the area. "I'm right forlorn, Rat, mate." Spike wagged his finger towards the retreating shadow. "An' by that right, you should be too. Hell, let's go find Angel, the wanker. Let's unite in bloody angst, maudlin pain and overwrought grief. We'll read Sylvia Plath and frown alot."

Spike sighed at his attempt to cheer himself up with a crappy joke. Not working. Not working one damn, bloody, shitty bit. Ah well. He would not have returned here if that was what he really wanted, deep down. He wanted to brood. He painted another nail with the bottle by his feet. Held it up to catch some of the dim glare from the spotlights. "Oh-oh. I've gone punk-rock!" Spike said quietly, absently.

Shit.

He stared up at the crooked spotlight nearest to him. Around it swarmed armies of gnats and moths. Inhaled by the light. (What do you think goes through their minds when they are drawn to it like dope? Do they knowingly toss off moth-tasks and responsibilities and mosh in the light? Does it make 'em happy? Or is it just an empty chimera with no awakening . God, Angelus was fond of that word. Dru thought it was a type of bloody pastry. Surprised I even remember such a nancy-boy term.)

He sighed, abandoning pointless musings. Resting his head against his knees, he let his thoughts take him where they would.

Part Five

"Hey! Looks like we're riding the blinds tonight, eh? So what's your name, buddy?"

"Spike" It took him a moment to remember what blinds meant. Oh, empty boxcar. Hoboes and their upmarket slang. Uuuuggg.

The man, no, make that kid, (Hell, he looks 15!) braced one hand against the wall to steady himself against the rocking car, and offered his other to Spike.

"Spike? Good one. You can call me Josh. That's short for Joshua. I don't use a road name." The boy dropped his hand to his side and slid down the wall to a sitting position. Spike followed suit, sitting just close enough to hear the other over the noise of the moving train. "I never really understood the point of them, you understand? Aww hell, they are entertainin' and all, but what's wrong with yer real god- given name?" Josh looked over quickly to Spike. "No offense meant, sir. It's just an opinion, for what it's worth."

"Don't worry about it, chum. I'm not." Spike grinned at the kid to let him know no harm had been done to his ego. It was commonplace for a hobo to invent a name for himself once he took to riding the rails. New Haven Baldy, Red, Firehose Joe.......names like that were to be encountered. Spike found it amusing to look back on the list of names, if he had taken the time to inquire such, of those he had killed.

They both paused talking as the switchman, who rode in the caboose, sent a sharp "toot toot" on the whistle. That was the `highball signal' for the engineer (and the hobos). Trick was to catch it on the run, or on the fly as it was called, before or after the train had sent out the signal. After that, it was most times going to fast to hop it.

"Where you hail from? That's a......an English accent, right?" The kid had pulled his hat off and was now arranging his bed roll on the lumpy floor. "I'm from Toledo, myself."

"Boston. You heading West? NorthWest, I mean? For the berries and such?" Spike inquired, making himself more comfortable. He started to roll a cigarette.

"Yup. Make some money. I was in Detroit, painting signs in windows for the last month. Business dried up. Not too many need sign painters these days, unless it's to paint a goin' out of business announcement" The boy scratched at his tangled, grimy hair. Spike noticed that he looked worn. Almost too worn for what was expected these days. Shit, he was just a kid. Spike had been poor and oftentimes homeless at his age, but had he looked as knackered as that?

The boy caught him looking at him and asked, "Can you spare a weed?" Spike nodded, handing over the finished cigarette to Josh. He began to roll another for himself. They made small talk for awhile.... news of the depression, the new makes of the cars on the road, the Jazz scene back on the East coast, and other things of a light nature. After awhile both fell silent.

"So what's your story, kid?" Spike asked, breaking the companionable silence that had formed.

The boy shrugged, not looking at Spike. "Nuthin' much to tell. Same old story. You know. Family 'o six. Pa lost the farm to the bank, I left. One less mouth to feed."

"Is that so?" Yup. Same old story. Why'd he even bother to ask? Spike tried to fiegn interest, but interest had meandered off by the third or fourth time he had heard the all too familiar tale. This was probably the hundreth time he had heard a different variation. The farm died, the cow died, my lil' sis died, my da run off, there are 31 kids in the family to feed, we lost our money to the banks, and bloody shut UP already. Sometimes Spike killed people just for telling the same tale of depressional woe. For not having a better story to entertain him with. A bored Spike was liable to make his own fun. Typically of the lethal sort. "So how long you been on the road?" Spike inquired hopefully. Maybe the kid had some good rail stories.

Josh scratched his head, and pondered for a moment, lips moving silently as he did the mental calculations. "Year and three months, I reckon. I just turned 19 last month." Said with the content self-satisfaction only people under 20 posses when it comes to aging.

"Shit, I would have guessed younger."

"Yeah, yeah. Folks always do. My size, I 'spose." The kid laughed tiredly. "Yeah, my brother, Phil, he was always picking on me about it. Said if I didn't mind him he'd use me as a doorjamb. He....." Josh trailed off and began to pick at the creased leather of his boots.

"Doorjamb. I like that. Where did he go once everything went down the shitter?" Prompted Spike.

"He came with me to find work." The boy didn't look up.

"Aaaand?.........." Spike beckoned with his hands for emphasis.

"And three days ago one of the shacks caught him riding the rods. He took the westbound." He boy finally looked up, trying to force anger into his suddenly wet eyes. Daring him and pleading with him at the same time to say anything about the prelude to tears.

Spike simply continued to stare at Josh. Riding the rods mean that you rode under the train. Underneath the freight cars there were rods for support. These rods went from almost one end of the boxcar to the other, and there was usually three or four of them. Some of the riders would lay on the rods if the cars were locked up. It wasn't very comfortable, so Spike had been told. When a shack, the slang for brakeman, had knowledge of people riding the rods, he might do one of two things. One, let them be. Two, and Spike loved this, he might take a cord with something tied to the end, and feed it down from the front of the car. The way it would bounce and swing around, more times than not it pried whoever was underneath from the rods. The best thing was, and Spike REALLY loved this, was that the railway employees had to shovel up the remains afterwards. Or spray them away with a hose. They complained and nattered of it as if scraping up some type of diseased roadkill, nothing more.

And to catch the Westbound meant that one had died.

So the kid's brother was torn to shreds under the wheels of a train. Yawn. Oh, look here, everyone. Kid's begun to cry for real now.

Spike leaned a bit closer so that he could get a better look at Josh for entertainment purposes. Josh whipped his head up, startled and embarrassed about his unmanly behavior. "What are you doing, fellow? Keep your space. Do I look like a punk to you?"

"Huh?" Was the only word that Spike could think of to say. In fact, it fit so well he repeated it. "Huh?" He scooted back to his former position. Just when he thought he knew all the railway slang a new one popped up. He scratched at his elbows in bewilderment They were confused, also. "What's a punk, mate?"

The boy roughly swiped at his eyes with his cap, leaving dirt smeared on his cheeks. "You know. Punk. Kids that do stuff for older hoboes. Steal for 'em, look out for 'em. Do unchristian things with 'em too."

"Ahhhh." Spike barked laughter. "Don't worry, kid. I ain't trying to get your fly unzipped. Besides, I have a girl back home."

Josh latched on this, obviously as an escape from the previous topic. "You have a dame? Tell me about her? I had a girl back home. Name was Sally. She didn't like me much, I guess. Wouldn't make me her steady fellow....."

Spike interrupted with a content sigh. "Mmmmm. Yeah. She's something, all right. Smallish, with dark hair. Her name is Dru." He looked over at the boy who was looking at him in expectation, obviously wanting him to continue. Spike stretched his arms behind his head and leaned back. "Love at first sight, mate, and all that rot. If you can believe it. "

"Love." Josh chuckled. "yeah, you got it bad. It's written up an' down you. She the only love you ever had? Your first, I mean?"

Spike thought about Angelus. "Yup, mate, only one."

Josh sat up and pointed matter of factly at Spike before turning to his canvas pack to rummage around. "liar."

Spike looked at the kid in amazement. "Huh?" Verbal deja-vu.

"Hey, you got a knife. I had mine nicked by a bull a few towns back." Josh held up a sausage. "Not bad, huh? I love these things. Want a bit?"

Spike thrust his hand into his pack and retrieved the blade. " No thanks. Wait, go back. Liar? What the hell you talking about, boy? I wasn't. Lying, I mean." He frowned at his feet.

"Oh yeah, and I'm Cyd Charisse. Didn't you see me in my last picture show? Was wondering why you didn't recognize me." He brayed laughter. (Kid's getting a bit too cocky in his familiarity. Better watch his gob or I'll become a bit more familiar than he's probably willing to get.) Spike gritted his teeth and forced himself to ask the obvious question. "So why do you insist that I was lying?"

"You had this look on your face when I asked you. All sour and twisted-like. Like you just found out that a glass of lemonade you drank was really frog piss. My sister looks just like that whenever you mention her husband. He's in the military, had to leave her and her two kids. So's I figured it was the same way with you. Some dame gone and treated you raw, now you try not to think about her." Josh shrugged. "And I think I am right even more, 'cause you jumped up all sudden when I told you how I saw it. Like you was hiding something. So what the broad do to you? Cheat? Steal your money?"

Spike didn't answer at first. He was weighing the options of just grabbing the kid by his legs and dangling the little shit out the doors of the car until his cocky head slammed open and left his impudent brains along the ground. Pretty colors everywhere, as Dru would say. On the other hand, the force would knock Spike out of the train also, probably. Plus, he'd have to get up from his blanket. And finally, why not? Why the fuck not talk? Let's humor the dumb kid and do some sire-bashing. Paint him up as the bastard he truly is.

"It wasn't a broad. It was a bloke."

Josh froze, mouth open to bite into a slice of meat balanced on the knife blade. " You a sissy, fellow?"

Spike realized he had better to some damage control before this Christian boy threw himself from the train for fear that being in the same car with a "homo" would taint his soul. Anyways, he wasn't. Sex was just simply incorporate to that entire demon control issue. (You liked it, Spike, my boy. Don't kid with yourself.)

"Naw, Naw. It wasn't like that. He was my friend. More like a brother, I guess. Only other person besides Dru I ever gave a rat's ass for." Spike had no idea why anyone would give a rat's ass for anything or anyone, and furthermore, why someone would create such an inane phrase. (Though was it inane in principle, or because Spike had not thought it up?) But rat's asses were better than the word love.

"So what happened? Why did you have a falling out? He didn't....die, did he?" Josh cocked his head and stared at Spike.

"Die? Who knows, who cares! I don't, and I'm damn sure God doesn't. He was a bastard. Evil. We're not talking fun evil here, either, mate. We are talking evil to those he should have taken care of. Those he should have cared for. He messed with you in your head, so that you wondered if he was nuts or you were nuts or even worse, thought it was how it should be!" Spike spat out, hoping to see the boy recoil or at least look shocked.

He didn't.

Instead he just smiled and shook his head.

"Shit, man. You never done anything evil to anyone before? You say it like you are the only one who has ever been kicked around. Don't play that. I'm sure you have done bad to people you cared about, too."

"Fuck you! I've been nothing but good to those I loved, or cared for! I give them what they want, gave HIM all he could bloody want!"

The boy continued, ignoring Spike's astonished outburst, his voice calm and earnest. "What's the word, yeah, you talk like yer the only one been VICTIMIZED by life. So what? You never made someone want to cry before? Come on, all those people who tell themselves they are good while those who accidental-like hurt 'em are real, true evil for doing it, hell, maybe they deserved it. Or no, that's not saying it right. Not deserve. I mean, lot's 'o people like to say they are good and pure and don't hurt others and go to church, justifyin' and yammering about their goodness so they don't feel all guilty about thinkin' evil thoughts, and considerin' doing evil things to ones that they love and stuff. Guess your buddy just didn't have the self control to keep it in. Or realized that thinkin' and doing' can be the same thing when it comes to family and love and the like. Cause those thoughts always come out and hurt, even if you don't know you are showing it. I've seen it. It's like the boogieman, buddy. You blame all the crap and pain in your life on that person that hurt you so you don't have to think about the things you have fucked up on your own. Cause it's most the time not the fault of your boogieman family or love or friend. I think that it's people's own damn fault they ain't happy."

Part Four

"I think I'm just going to toss you out this train into the back of beyond, you effin' shit." Hissed Spike.

When the boy had started his rambling dialogue, Spike was already annoyed by not getting the response he wanted from Josh after verbally dismantling Angelus. When the boy began to work up a little fervor over his speech, Spike had sat gape mouthed at what the kid was shooting out of his gob. By the time Josh had mentioned the boogieman, Spike was standing, hands clenched, nostrils flaring. And when the boy finally concluded his view of how he saw things, Spike was leaning over him, hands out against the wall over the kneeling boy's head for balance. He was glaring straight down into the boy's upturned face, who had, to a small bit of Spike's satisfaction, begun to look nervously at the glowering man above him.

"So let me get this straight, CHUM." Spike slowly leaned back onto his heels, removing his hands from the wall. "Let me see if I can twist my brain around this little parcel of information, BUDDY." Spike began to ease himself down to the boy's level on the floor. "Let's see if I have a smidgeon of the intelligence that you so eloquently expressed, and see if I can grasp the deepness of your words. You, MATE, correct me if I am wrong, seem to be saying that it was not my sire that was the ponce, it was me for letting him hurt me? For that I am deserving of the brutality he dished out night after night after bloody night? Is that what you are saying? Huh? answer me. ANSWER ME, GODDAMMIT!" Spike slammed a fist into the wall on either side of the mute boy's head.

Josh flinched, throwing his hands up to shelter his face from Spike's glazed eyes and clenched jaws. Obviously he had not expected a response this brutal. He had probably not even thought how his words might affect the stranger riding with him in the box car. "I... uh....No, I was sayin'...."

"What? You stutter? I not making myself clear? You had better start that fucking gob of yours working correctly, mate, or else I will. I want to know why you think I earned torture at the hands of my sire." Spike shoved the boy back against the wall for added emphasis to his words.

Josh just looked at him in confusion. "S-sire? Wha...what do you-" He saw Spike's eyes widen further and promptly changed the subject. "N-no, I wasn't sayin' you deserved it-I was joking. It was just a lark. No harm meant, buddy." He shot out quickly.

"How come I don't believe a single word coming out of your fucking mouth, kid?" Spike whispered. He removed his hands from Josh's chest and reached up to his head to grab double fistfuls of hair.

"but-"

"No buts, kiddo. You are going to tell me the truth. You're a shitty liar. Don't try to pull one over on me." Spike sat back, releasing his hold, and terror lessened its grip on the boy's face. Slightly though. Only slightly.

"But, uh, Spike? I'm scared if I tell you, you are gonna punch me." Josh said lamely, his eyes beseeching.

Spike tossed his head back at roared laughter that was too brittle and gaudy to be even mildly genuine. What was wrong with this kid? On the road this long and still not enough street smarts to realize he was in danger of more than a black eye? "Well, kid, if you DON'T tell me, you sure as hell will find my foot buried up your ass and my fist breaking your nose. And you don't know for sure if I will punch you for telling me. It's the devil you know or the devil you don't. It is your choice." Spike was telling a fib if there ever was one, he would see Josh dead by the time the sun rose, but he WOULD hear this kid's lousy explanation. It was sure to piss him off more, which was sure to make killing him even sweeter. How dare he presume to know how Spike dealt with the pain of his sire inexplicably vanishing? How dare he say that Spike deserved his pain? That Dru deserved to be deranged? That it was no ones fault that Angelus permeated the darkness every time they made love, was infused in every kill they shared, that every damn night the waking thought as the sun set was that maybe he would be sitting there when they opened their eyes?

He would hear this out.

Josh licked his lips and started to speak haltingly. "I meant, well, let me tell you a story, ok?" He waited for a response but received none. Just a stony stare.

"Well, ok then.....this happened about um, six months ago or so. Stuck with me ever since. Me and Phil were on our way to Nashville when we stopped for the night at a hobo jungle. It was just a stick in the mud type of place, sure you've seen the type.....just some bushes where 'bos would stop for the night. " The boy was breathing more calmly now, thinking probably that a beating had been adverted.

Spike was smirking cryptically at the thought of the boy screaming. Maybe he'd bite his fingers off one by one. Hadn't done that since Rome. Josh saw this small twitching on the vampire's face and took it for encouragement, launching himself with abandon into the present story much as he had done with the earlier ill-fated one.

"Well, we was with a group of others on the same route, and when we walked into the camp, me and Phil noticed a man sitting off by himself a ways from the group. It was odd cause all us rail riders stick together, you know? And we had also grouped together an' was telling tales, which no one misses when in their right mind, you can be sure of.

So's I asked this fellow next to me, 'Hey chum, is that fellow ok?' an' the guy told me it was just the way of Sour Jim, and to let him be. Well, my curiosity got the better of me, it always did, Phil said, and I walked over to him.

Lord! I know we all look like what we are, poor as dirt and with no place or thing to call our own, but this fellow was awful nasty. Reeked of rubbing alcohol, he did. Was drinking it to get drunk, you see? But anyways, we started talking, me and him. Asked him about his life, cause he looked so lonely. Like maybe I could get him to smile, ease him up a bit.

So he tells me that he had run a pharmacy before the depression hit, and after it closed, he took to drinking and his wife left him. He was real bitter-like, saying all types of mean things about his old lady. Hell, I would not have lived with him either, way he seemed so mad and shriveled.

I asked him if he was going to the next big harvest, and he just gave me this look and was like, 'It's no use. It will just be rotten like everything in my life. You will learn kid. Just gonna sit here till it all goes away'

I ask him why he would say such a depressin' thing, and he starts to bawl like a little kid. Says that his life has always been bad. Said he was doomed to failure, he never had a chance. Accountin' on his father and all. I asked him what his father did, and you know what he said?

'My father killed my dog when I was just a squirt, I loved that dog. After that, it made me see that people were mean and rotten, not to be trusted. They will just hurt you in the end. Ruined me for life. '

The boy paused and was looking with expectation at Spike. "Well?"

"Well bloody what, kid?"

"You see what I was sayin' now?" The kid was grinning like he was waiting for an ice-lolly for doing something amazing for his elders. He had seemed to already forget and forgive the violence only a short time before.

Spike made a show of running his hands through his hair and staring up at the ceiling in annoyance. Should he kill him now?

"What you were saying about your friend reminded me of that evening. Something happens that messes a fellow up, he can either take it in stride or let it eat away at him until he goes mad. I mean, look at my brother. He is gone now, but I am not. I gotta keep going. And not just for him. For me. Your friend hurt you, but maybe you are now blaming him for too much, for everything that is lacking in your life, you see? You gotta enjoy life, right? It's a gift from god." Josh nodded his head sagely at the thought of God and his mysterious ways.

Yes, now would be a fine time for a violent act. Give God a little gift in respect to how much he was enjoying the life of the kid in front of him.

Spike jolted forward suddenly, as to not give the boy any reaction time. The boy jumped, but Spike was already holding his shoulders tightly, his knee digging into Josh's stomach. "Nice tale, kid. Really, I enjoyed it. Bloody tasty. Wonder is the harbinger is as good?" Spike licked the boys cheek and pushed the boy back at arms length to observe the look of revolt and fear that he knew would be there.

Once again the kid was not playing the game as he should. Oh, he looked revolted. But not ready to shit his trousers. He actually looked peevish. What the hell?

"You're nuts, mister. You know that? What, you think because you don't like what I say that you should just go and scare me? Hell, it wasn't even about you, at first. You made it about you. Fine, if it make's you feel better you can wale away at me. Least I know now that what I said was true about you, though you're just gonna keep denying it. So you can just go FUCK yourself. So you gonna hurt me? So what. Go ahead. least I am not like YOU, you fuck!" As he said this, Josh's voice began to intensify until the last words were screamed into Spike's face.

Spike growled low in his throat and grabbed the boy's arms tighter, causing Josh to inhale sharply with the pain. Scorn and disgust were still endorsing themselves on Josh's face.. Spike was more angry than he had been in a long, long time. Why wouldn't he look frightened? Disgust? For him? He would, he MUST make the boy look at him with fear.

"You are going to kill me, ain't ya? Fuck, for telling you the TRUTH about yourself." The boy leaned forward towards Spike until their foreheads were almost touching. The roles of earlier were suddenly, eerily, reversed besides the fact that Spike was still the one clutching Josh. For some reason it disquieted Spike and he found himself craning his head back a couple inches.

Josh whispered, "Least I'll die knowing that I won. Cause I am not gonna be scared of you. You are more scared of you, with yer smugness an' smart words, than I am." He then spat on Spike, the saliva hitting him on the temple.

And Spike roared in response, tossing the boy to his left. He grabbed the knife that still lay on the ground next to the boy's sausage meat and twirled around to launch himself at the boy. There was no grace to this. It was ugly, naked with the need to do it as fast as possible. Spike grabbed the boy by his collar, pulling him forward as he brought the blade forward with his other hand. Spike dropped his weight onto Josh to aid the penetration of the blade. His demon face did not appear during this attack, for it had nothing do with the interests of Spike's demon self. His rage and frustration were that of his humanity.

As he imbedded the blade past the hilt into the boy's upper stomach and ripped it open with a downward jerk, the only sound was the train's steady rumble.

Spike now lay on top of the boy, with one hand between them where it still clung to the blade. He was taking quick, jerky glances at the boy's shocked face. He was still feeling out of his element dealing with this enigma of a human, even having just placed a killing blow. He did not like the feeling roiling within him.

All this time, even with the knife ramming its way into him, the Kid had not lost his look of insulted loathing. It suddenly slipped away now as they lay on the floor of the car."I did...I didn't really think deep down you'd do it. I was still just jerking with you. My brother used to...used t' say that I joked too....hell." The boy tried to cough wheezily. Spike, with his entire being, just wanted to shove him away. For some reason, he found he had no energy to get to his feet. So he studied at the dying features below him.

He boy was beginning to breathe erratically. He looked up at Spike with sedate eyes and inexplicably sighed with pity. "I'm sorry."

"What?" Spike whispered unwillingly. A nasty ache was forming in his stomach.

"You do have it rough. Coming up. I doubt you can take it." The boy shut his eyes and continued in an absent, sing-song voice. It was as his vocal chords were reverting to youth and an earlier time of guilelessness. "It's ok, Will, just try. It's all...all you can do."

And with Spike cringing above him in shock, Josh died.

And Spike began to scream in horror.

And using his bare hands, he began to slash at the boys face, trying to eradicate this thing below him. He dug red furrows into the skin, deeper and deeper until his fingers hit bone and began to bleed themselves from the force.

And still Spike screamed.

Part Seven

"I didn't. I didn't. Did I?"

Spike was kneeling in front of a horse trough, mindless of the water he was splashing onto his trousers. It was near dawn, and he had yet to find a retreat for the daylight hours. He was panting as if he had run for miles. He had in fact, though his breathing had nothing to do with the running. He had turned his back to the body once his senses had returned, refusing to simply push it from the freight because of a distaste to touch it. He kept turning around though, suddenly, to brandish the knife at the corpse. Only to turn back to the wall and stare at it with bulging eyes. As the miles wore on, he was finding it harder and harder to keep his grip on the panic he felt returning. So as the train began to slow at a turn in the tracks, Spike had bailed, running as soon as he found his feet as fast as he could. In his haste, he had even taken the boy's pack accidentally, not realizing his mistake. Once he did, at the trough, he flung it as far as he could from himself.

Spike had been rubbing and grinding at his hands with water for over an hour now. He wanted the blood off, needed to get the blood off and just forget this night ever happened. Problem was, he had torn into the boy's face so hard and dug so deep that there were shreds and chucks of gore imbedded deep under his nails that he could not reach. He had left his knife on the train, so obviously it could not be used to clean the nails.

"You and me, Lady Macbeth." Spike tittered savagely, holding his hands up for another fruitless inspection. (I'm going nutters, oh God, did I say it? When? I can't remember. Oh shit. I did. You did, Spike. You DID.........did I?)

Suddenly he noticed the chirping of birds.

"Oh, god. What am I going to do? I can't... I gotta get the nails clean. oh no, no no." He suddenly had a memory from the train ride that gave him an idea. Staggering over to where he had discarded Josh's backpack, he gingerly began to rummage through it, equally squeamish of touching the objects inside and further bruising his mutilated fingertips. He remembered a comment the kid had said...

"Bingo!" With trembling hands he withdrew a paint brush. Further inspection revealed a jar of black paint and one of red. Not red. He could not stomach red right now.

He began to black out his nails, quickly, because he could now see features of the landscape around him. Dawn was coming. Capping the jar, he placed it in his pocket, and with a rather fearful last look at his hands and then at the backpack on the ground, headed off to sleep.

He woke the next night much his old self, even able to laugh at the sight of his black tipped fingers. Spike killed the family at a nearby home to procure a car, and began a long drive back to Boston, first using his stolen paint to block the windows from the sunlight.

He would not take the train back. And even though he was forcibly forgetting the night he killed Josh and decided that "yes, he had", he still wore the paint until he was back in the flat with an again attentive, cooing Dru. Once home with all his extra energy focused on Dru, it was all too easy to forget his fears.

Spike crushed out another cigarette into the gravel along side the other butts that protruded from the ground in an orderly row. He stretched his arms skyward, mentally calculating how many hours of darkness remained. He then lowered his arms to look at his hands.

Hands and death had much in common, Angelus had once told Spike. They are always with you. You know your hands intimately, but rarely take the time to actually, really look a them. When you did, it was with a mixture of seeing something for the first time and greeting an old friend who's features one forgot until face to face. Watching someone die was just like that. Only much more entertaining, of course.

Spike wiggled his fingers, watching the various tendons pull and stretch. "Hello there, friends. Have you missed it? Much as I have. Haven't been of much use lately, have you? No killing and maiming allowed anymore." He sighed bitterly. He had tried to talk himself into believing he was drunk from the alcohol he had consumed, but no such luck. His mind had preferred to play in the past rather than enjoy the offerings of the present, apparently.

The vampire ran his hands through his hair until it stuck up in deranged lines. He had not really thought about the boy until the early 80's, when Dru took sick. That was also the time he had started to paint his nails again, black nail polish being offered to the masses for the first time. He had told himself that it was for the aesthetics of it, and he was not lying. It looked damn good. But he was wiser now, and had decided to not mislead himself about this. It was also because of the words the kid had spoke to him as he died.

It wasn't that he had shown anger or disgust as he died. Spike had seen that. Hell, Spike had seen about any response one could have while dying. Or even the pity, though that had been a first. "You do have it rough. Coming up. I doubt you can take it." Yeah, that was part of it. But that was not specifically what Spike found himself dwelling on more and more as things became worse and worse in this muddled thing he considered his life. It was a simple word that shook him to his core that night.

He hadn't told the kid his name.

Spike, yes. But the boy had called him Will. And that is what had caused him to scream, to run wildly from the train as soon as he could, to claw his hands into the boy's flesh until he nearly tore his own fingers to the bones.

Because even though he had tried to convince himself that he had, he hadn't.

When cross referenced with the other words Josh had said as he died about things in the future for Spike, had it been a curse, a foresight uttered about the future, or had Spike's subconscious done a fucked up thing and made Spike create his own fulfillment of the boy's words? Naw, he knew that it was no curse. Forget the third option too. So the boy had seen a glimpse of the future? Nice.

Spike pulled himself to his feet and began to walk along the train tracks on one of the rails, still in thought.

This was the kicker. What could keep him up at night if he let it. Dru had left. "Angel", not Angelus, had reappeared, the crap with the bloody Initiative had gone down. Pretty bad, eh? When each of these events happened, he hoped that they had been what the boy had been foreseeing.

But what if they were not?

What if the really rancid stuff was yet to come? Could Spike handle it? He did not honestly know. He knew what the boy would have said, though.

He shouldn't create a dead dog to kick around and then pull close to him for bitter comfort.

Spike shook his head at that thought. Like father like son, who would have thought? Brooding the live-long night through. Figures.

Bloody hell. He had not told the boy his name.

The blond man walks down the tracks, carefully placing one foot before the other as to not lose his balance on the sleek, worn rail.

He is whistling a little tune, not known to anyone besides those who had lived and died long ago. He is not tired, even though the night has been mentally longer than most. He'll leave for his "home" in awhile, but for now he is perfectly happy to play on these tracks.

Suddenly the man pinwheels his arms as he misplaces his foot on the metal railing. But he overbalances, tumbling to the ground on his back. He lays there for a moment in the silence, blinking owlishly at the metal running before him into the distance. He hops to his feet, and brushes off the long duster he is wearing. He also kicks the metal track for good measure.

He squares his shoulders, and steps up onto the track again. He continues his interrupted walk along the railing, his footing sure but slow. As he travels the curving line East, he adopts a jaunty walk to match the tune he whistles again.

And he begins to laugh.

THE END