Prudhoe Bay is an actual place in Northern Alaska:

While I used the images and some factual information in my story, I’ve never been to Prudhoe Bay, so some of my descriptions may not be entirely accurate, and of course, Robert Makovich is a figment of my imagination.

September 28, 2005, Prudhoe Bay Alaska

Bumping shoulders with Illyria as he made his way to the refrigerator, Spike resisted the urge to start screaming and throwing things. Living with another person in a five-by-eight-foot camper was going to send him straight over the edge. Heaving a sigh, he opened the refrigerator and poured out a mug of blood.

“This is not working, luv.” He opened the microwave and set his cup into it. “I going to end up in the looney bin living here, living like this.” He swung an arm around, motioning to the small, cramped interior of the camper. “We need to get back to civilization, where we can rent a flat, go see a film, and eat in a bloody restaurant.”

“There’s a restaurant at the Prudhoe Bay hotel,” Illyria stated matter-of-factly, as she sat back in the on the cushion of the camper’s dinette, her eyes never leaving the television screen. To her Alaska wasn’t much different from LA. She was able to play her video games, watch TV, and many nights she and Spike wandered over to the hotel and ordered chicken wings and a couple of beers for dinner. Life was not bad, not conquering-the-world wonderful, but not bad.

“Yes, but the menu there is getting a bit stale,” Spike said just as the microwave beeped. “I want some variety, Italian, Asian, Mexican, something new, something different. And I want a living space that’s bigger than a frigging shoebox.”

‘We could rent a room at the Prudhoe hotel, but if we did that, you’d have to get a job,” Illyria suggested helpfully.

“Working on an oil rig? Don’t think so, course. . . .” Spike cocked his head thoughtfully, as he removed his blood from the microwave. “You’re strong enough; you could work on an oil rig as well as I could. Better, in fact, cos, you wouldn’t have to worry about working the day shift.”

“If they saw my strength, they’d become suspicious.” Illyria quickly nixed the idea.

“Like they aren’t already. An English chap shows up with an odd looking woman in Prudhoe Bay, Alaska, population forty-seven with two hotels, one food shop, one do-it-yourself shop, and one petrol station.”

Illyria shrugged, as she continued playing her video game. It had been her opinion that Prudhoe Bay wasn’t remote enough, even though it sat on the Artic Ocean in the north of Alaska. It was still accessible by the Dalton Highway, which meant if Angelus and or the Council wanted to follow them, it wouldn’t be an impossibility. But Spike had balked at coming this far, going somewhere even more isolated was not something he would have even considered.

Throwing himself into the other dinette seat, Spike heaved a huge sigh. He was bored. No demons or nasties to kill up here at the end of earth, no pubs or nightclubs to go get pissed in and then thrown out of. Just snow, cold, and a five by eight living space.

“The owner of the Prudhoe Hotel made an offer to me the other night,” Illyria spoke up after finishing a battle in her game.

“Wanted to get into your knickers, did he?” Spike scowled with disapproval. “Dirty old bugger.”

“He offered me a job in the restaurant,” Illyria continued, not exactly sure what getting into one’s knickers meant.

“Really?” Spike’s disapproval quickly turned to interest, as he considered the possibilities. “Think he’d throw in a room as part of your pay?”

Illyria shrugged again. “He didn’t mention that, but I’m sure it could be a negotiable point.”

Mental images of a nice size room with two beds and space to move around flashed through Spike’s head, giving him a small reason to be happy. “I believe tonight is dinner at the Prudhoe Hotel, and then some discussion with Mr. Robert Makovich, owner and operator of said hotel.”

Illyria nodded in agreement. “Fine, but if I am to work, then you have to go and hunt your own meals.”

“Right, pet. From now on I hunt for my own meals,” Spike said with a cheery smile. Nothing like putting Illyria to work to improve their living conditions.

Robert Makovich was a large, gruff man, who had lived in Prudhoe Bay for twenty odd years. He had started out working on the oil rigs, and when enough money had been amassed, he had built the first restaurant in the northern Alaska region. Later he added a hotel, and the two businesses were now turning quite a profit.

“Just what the devil are the two of you doing here in Prudhoe Bay?” He stared at them with suspicion. “Not wanted by the law, are you?”

“Have you seen us on America’s Most Wanted?” Spike knew that in a place like Prudhoe Bay, thirty-six of the thirty-seven residents were tuned in on Saturday nights.

Makovich shook his head. “No, but the only people who live up here are the oil workers and their families. No else comes up here but tourists, so it’s mighty fishy that the likes of you. . . .” He gave Spike another thorough once-over and then turned to Illyria. “And what’s the relationship between you two, husband and wife?”

Spike took a deep breath, trying to hold in his temper. He didn’t like being grilled by a two-bit hotel owner. “Brother and sister,” he finally replied, knowing that not answering would only arouse more suspicion.

“Brother and sister?” Makovich questioned with disbelief. “If your brother and sister, why is that you. . . .” He pointed to Spike. “Talk with a funny accent and she don’t?”

“Half-brother and sister,” Spike quickly amended. “Same mum, different father. Mine was English and hers. . . .” He exchanged looks with Illyia. “Wasn’t.”

“Yeah.” Makovich chewed on his cigar for a moment, not sure if he believed Spike or not.

“We are running away,” Illyria spoke up with an explanation of her own.

“Love,” Spike quickly intervened, afraid of whatever next was going to come out of Illyria’s mouth.

“An old boyfriend of mine. He’s quite psychotic.” Illyria borrowed a the term from Spike’s frequent description of Angelus.

“Really?” Mark’s expression softened. Nothing like a damsel in distress to bring out man’s protective instinct. “But to come all the way up here?”

“He’s very determined and very,” she broke off, not sure how to continue but Spike taking her cue, twirled his finger in a circle by his head. The international sign of craziness.

“Alright, then.” Makovich was slightly less disbelieving. “You ever waitress before?”

At Illyria’s blank look, Spike quickly spoke up. “No, but she is a quick study and quite capable. It’s just that, that. . . .” He leaned closer to Makovich. “She’s a bit peculiar, not crazy peculiar, just a little off, if you know what I mean.”

“Okay.” Makovich nodded his head. “I guess that explains the weird blue make-up, but her strange looks are sure of interest to the locals here, and I’m sure she would grab the attention of the tourists too. Show up tomorrow around seven p.m. The first thing you can learn is how to clean up at night.”

“And the pay?” Spike asked.

“Minimum wage, until we see if she works out. If she can do the job, then we’ll raise it.”

“I would like a room here at the hotel,” Illyria announced. “To live in.”

“Like I said.” Makovich stubbed out his cigar in an ashtray. “If your work is satisfactory, then we’ll talk wage and possible accommodations here at the hotel.”

“But we,” Illyria began, but was pulled away by Spike. The offer was better than expected in a place like Prudhoe Bay. It was better not to push their luck.

September 29, 2005

Leaning up against the truck, Spike blew out a ring of smoke from a cigarette while eyeing his surroundings, miles and miles of white bareness with only a few buildings and oil rigs dotting the landscape. It was hell for him, a man, who throughout his entire existence, human and vampire, lived and enjoyed the amenities of large, metropolitan areas.

“Hey, love.” He turned to greet Illyria, as she stepped down from the camper. “Ready?” he asked, admiring the demon goddess’ slim form, now dressed in black jeans, a Prudhoe Bay Motel tee-shirt, and a short leather jacket. There was no doubt Illyria was an attractive being, but in the strange phenomenon of sexual attraction and love, Spike found that she only sparked brotherly feelings in him.

“Yes,” Illyria answered in her usual emotionless tone. She had agreed to take the job to improve their situation, but it had finally hit her earlier in the day that this job signaled how far she had fallen, from goddess to waitress.

Sensing her thoughts, Spike did his best to placate. “Just for a short time. Angelus never had a long attention span. He’ll tire of searching for me, and then we can perhaps move to Anchorage, and by next spring I hope to leave this ice box for good. Don’t plan to live through days with twenty plus hours of daylight.”

Illyria nodded, as she opened the passenger door of the Dodge pick-up. “And the Council?” she asked, climbing up into the truck’s cab.

“They’ll be too involved in their new war soon. Won’t have time to be checking up on us.”

Nodding her head again, Illyria watched, as Spike settled into the driver’s seat. “You were correct in your statement about us having a fine gig in LA. I never realized how tenuous one’s circumstances are. If only I would have known that,” she trailed off, remembering the days, when she had ruled and been worshiped.

“Not many do,” Spike said, starting up the engine. “We always think that’s there something more, something better, never appreciating that maybe what we have is pretty good.”

With a small smile, and a rise of the eyebrow, Illyria cocked her head. “Wise words for a half-breed.”

“Well, don’t get used to them,” Spike joked, as he pulled out onto the road. “Cause I don’t say them too often.”

Another smile, and suddenly Illyria was feeling better. She was becoming quite fond of her vampire friend. The rest of the drive was done in a comfortable silence, but their content was not to last long.

“Something’s bloody wrong,” Spike said, as he pulled into the Prudhoe’s parking lot, stopped the truck, and looked around. Granted, Prudhoe Bay was not exactly a hub of activity, but still, between the locals, temporary workers, and tourists, there always was some going-ons in the small town. But now the whole place had an air of lifelessness.

“I smell death.” Illyria stepped out of the truck.

“Yeah, I do too.” Spike sniffed the air. “Hope it’s just some hunters, who got lucky.”

But deep down, both knew that it was not just a couple of caribou they smelled, it was the stench of human deaths. So it wasn’t much of a surprise when they stepped into the restaurant and were met with the sight of dead bodies and splattered blood covering the floor.

“William!” The tall, massive figure of Angelus stood up from a front table. “I’ve been chasing you literally to the end of the earth, and it’s not put me in a good mood.” It was only a flicker of an eye, but that flicker was an order that Angelus’ minions instantly understood. A couple of cast iron frying pans had been found in the restaurant’s kitchen and were now put to good use, as four minions snuck out of the kitchen and attacked from behind. The frying pans connected hard with the heads of Spike and Illyria, and it only took a few swings and both vampire and old one were unconscious on the floor.

It was hours later when Spike awoke, awoke naked and chained to the bed in his camper.

“Bloody fuckin’ell!” He gave the chains an experimental tug.

“The wayward Childe has awoken.” Angelus appeared at the foot of the bed. “Now the lessons can begin.”

“Sod off!” Spike snapped out. He knew all too well what Angelus meant by lessons. “You can hurt me all you want, but I am not going to join your little war. Don’t know why you even want me anyway, since you’re now partnered with your soul mate and queen.”

“Soul mate?” Angelus raised an eyebrow. “You mean Buffy? Buffy was never my soul mate, and besides, at this moment she’s in Europe with her amante.”

“Wha-Jesus!” Spike gave up on pulling at the chains, as he rolled his eyes. The Angel and Buffy saga was one fucked-up relationship.

“But getting back to you.” Angelus ran a hand down Spike’s body. “Running and hiding when your Sire needs you. Tch, tch, tch,” he scolded, as his hand stopped on Spike’s testicles.

“Fuck you!” Spike was defiant despite his situation. “And you are not my bleeding Sire!”

“What did you say?” Angelus’ hand grabbed and squeezed.

“Saying that you’re my Sire does not make you. . .ahh, bloody hell!” Spike swore through clenched teeth, as the hand that held his balls tightened to a painful level.

“Always such a disrespectful Childe.” Angel’s smile was feral, as he continued to squeeze, while pulling out a long, metal knitting needle. “I was lax by not beating that out of you, when you were a fledgling. Now. . . .” He flashed the needle in front of Spike to give him a good look at what was going to be the instrument of torture, and then with the sharp edge he gave Spike’s balls a small prick. “Tell me who I am.”

“Fuck off!”

Angelus sighed like he regretting what he was about to do, but the gleam in his eyes said otherwise. Releasing Spike’s balls with one hand, he jammed the needle in with the other.

Opening his mouth Spike let out of scream of pain, as his legs jerked, wanting to instinctively fold up, but the chains prevented any such movement. “Fuckin’ell!” he spat out. “Bloody nonce! I’ll kill you for this!”

“Tell me who I am,” Angelus ordered again.

“You are not my Sire! It was Drusilla in that dark alley. . .blo-ody hell!” Spike was cut-off as Angelus roughly pulled out the needle.

“Yes, it was Drusilla, who started the process, but whose blood do you think it was that brought you back?” Biting his wrist, Angelus opened a vein and let a couple of drops of his blood fall on the gaping wound that was now in Spike’s right testicle. The blood immediately calmed and soothed, and Spike’s body stopped its jerking, as its sweet smell hit his nostrils.

“You’re lying,” Spike panted out, but his voice held a note of uncertainty.

“Am I?” Angelus waved his bleeding wrist under Spike’s nose, and then with a finger dabbed a drop on Spike’s lip. “Taste it, and see if its flavor isn’t familiar to you.”

He couldn’t help himself, as his tongue came out and licked up the small spot of blood. It was just a drop, but that one drop sang as it sat on Spike’s tongue, sang of a biological oneness.

“Now, Childe.” Angelus once again lightly jabbed the knitting needle into Spike’s left testicle. “Tell me who I am.”

“My Sire,” Spike said in a low voice. He had surrendered, but it wasn’t because of fear of the knitting needle, but because of the one small taste of Angelus’ blood.

September 30, 2005

Slouched in the back seat of a big SUV, Spike sat with his knees up to his chest. His testicles still burned and itched. They were healing, but they hurt like hell. Looking out the back window, he watched the sight of the Dodge pick-up, his latest home, become smaller and smaller as the SUV sped away.

He had given in to Angelus, promising to honor and obey (or semi-obey, since it was an impossibility for him to totally obey), but on one condition; Illyria was to be released with truck and camper. She still had a home and vehicle, and Spike hoped that she would be smart enough to find a hiding place and stay hidden for a time. She needn’t get involved in the coming war.

Heaving a sigh, Spike realized that he missed Illyria and their little home already. Her prophetical words of tenuous circumstances echoed in his head, as now it seemed that sharing the small camper in Prudhoe Bay, Alaska had been heaven compared to his current situation.

“In Anchorage, we’ll catch a flight to LA.” Sitting up in front, a happy Angelus was explaining what was to happen. “And in LA, we’ll begin the next step of my plan, which is to find Connor. When we declare war on the Council and the slayers, I want my entire family with me, backing me up.”

“Drusilla, too?” Spike wondered out loud.

“I have a few very competent minions searching for her now. Hopefully we’ll be rendezvousing with them in LA.”

“One big, bloody family reunion,” Spike muttered sourly, as he heaved another sigh. He had come full circle, reunited again with Angelus and Drusilla and their grandiose visions of conquering the world. “It’s so unfair,” he continued his muttering. “I just want to be playing Warfare with Illyria, watching telly, and drinking a pint or two.”

Leaning his head against the leather seat, he closed his eyes. He had so wanted to stay out of the new war, and here he was, right smack in the middle of it.

****

Continue to Story 3

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