Xander & Anya LIFE


The Getaway Car
Kate Bolin

"You could come with me..." she said, her eyes filled with hope and fright, not knowing if I'd say yes, not knowing if I'd say no, afraid of both.

"We could just...get in the car and drive..." Her eyes pleading. "No one would miss us... We can take turns driving... Keep each other awake..."

And I thought about it all. I thought about what I had here. I thought about what would happen, what wouldn't happen, where all this would go, and what would happen, what would always happen.

I could be dead tomorrow. We could all be dead tomorrow, Sunnydale just another great school tragedy in a long line of tragedies, on the cover of Time and Newsweek and then forgotten once the next great tragedy appeared.

Or I could live.

It's dawn. We've crossed over the California border into Arizona. She filled the tank with gas before we left, filled it before she came for me. We told Giles, we told Willow, then we left, her suitcase in the trunk and the clothes on my back.

I've been driving for six hours straight. My eyes are gritty with lack of sleep, the exhaustion setting in. I turn the stereo up loud, the same tape playing over and over, keeping me awake long enough to reach this far. We can't stop. We have to keep going.

"I came around to tear your little world apart...and break your soul apart..."

Of course she'd have music like this. She wants to tear it all apart, cause chaos in the world because of a spurned love, because of spurned lovers around the world...

Except now she's human. And instead of fighting for spurned women, she is one. She twists slightly in her sleep, curled up on the backseat with a pillow, sleeping so that she can drive all day.

She's a demon. Was a demon. And she fell for me. Me. Alexander Lavelle Harris. Who can't even win "Class clown", much less go to college, get a good job, live a respectable life. Despite all that, she wanted me. She wanted me on this trip.

And so we drive. We keep driving. All we can do is drive.


"You're on your own now....we won't save you....your rescue-squad...is too exhausted..."

Driving again, the night enveloping our car, the lights of a few truckers passing by every hour or so. Another tape in the deck, playing over and over.

I try not to think about it. But I have to.

We stopped at a truck stop for dinner, greasy burgers and french fries. And the news was on. The news about Sunnydale.

The school is completely gone. They said there was a bomb. They said it must have been a student.

I thought, "I should have been there. I should have died with them all."

Then they said that we were responsible.

Anya dropped her fork. I sat there, staring. We were alive, and they were dead, and suddenly it wasn't about the Mayor, it wasn't about demons and magic and vampires, it was about two disgruntled teenagers with some military knowledge and a lot of money.

We paid the bill and I drove. I drove and drove and drove; driving past Arizona, into Utah. We didn't know where we were going. We just had to keep on driving, driving away from Sunnydale, away from California, away from it all.

Maybe they wouldn't be looking for us. Maybe CNN was wrong. The coverage had to die down. We could find a town with a small motel and no cable. I could get a job as a farmhand. She could waitress.

And then small dancing gnomes will appear and sing the theme from The Beverly Hillbillies.

I can't think about it. I can't think about the dead in town, or what was left of the town. Can't think about Buffy. Or Giles. Or Oz. Or Cordelia. Or Willow.

Willow. God, I just lost my best friend. Was it quick? Is she really dead or is she a vampire now? If I were to go back fifty years from now, a bitter old man, would she still be there, her hair still red, her eyes shining yellow as she showed her fangs?

I have to keep driving. I have to get far far away. Far away from Sunnydale, far away from the West Coast, far away from the death and destruction. Far away from memories.

We're all that's left. And we can't let it end like this. No matter what. And so we drive.