As dawn broke and cast its shattered rays across the world, the boy huddled in the corner of the basement.

He'd been there for so long, it seemed, the dust had forgotten he wasn't actually a part of the structure - the beams and walls and dark corners desperate for the silky touch of a spider's web. When he moved, which was rarely, the dust shook slightly, shocked at the disturbance from something it believed inanimate.

But, he wasn't inanimate. He wasn't dead. He was not, even, undead. He was a living, breathing sack of self loathing. He sat in the darkest corner of the room because he didn't feel he deserved the light. It was fitting that the hard stone floor let its cold soak into the boy's bones. He welcomed the chill as it ate away at the last fragments of his warmth. It was right that the damp was causing him, more than the cold, to shiver. It seeped into the fabric of his meagre clothing, making it cling to his flesh - the clammy, disdainful hand of justice.

He shifted slightly, needing the ache in his joints to be the constant reminder of his guilt, but unable to prevent his body from having to adjust its position lest it locks in place and then does become the oddly shaped lump that the dust had thought him to be. He moaned and the sound hung for a moment on the air, testing it, tasting it, before falling to the floor, its brief energy depleted. There was no echo. His voice hadn't managed to reach any other surface to give him the satisfaction of being returned.

He was alone, huddled, cold and welcoming of it all.

He opened his eyes and turned his head. He scanned the floor, his eyes wandering everywhere other than where he actually wanted, or at least needed, to look. The old barrel, its bands tarnished and barely able to hold the wood together, still had the hole near the bottom where the long-legged and small-bodied spider had entered... however long ago. The mud clinging to the tines of the pitchfork was still a dark brown doing its best to appear black to match the boy's mood but failing. The long cabinet against the far wall was still locked shut. It would stay that way. Nothing had or would change no matter how many times he stared at it rather than...

Her.

Finally, he allowed himself to look at her. She hadn't moved, much like himself and everything else in the basement. Her hair fell to the side in a spray of gold that glistened even when there was no light. It looked exactly as it did when she would fall asleep in the large, under-stuffed but overused chair that she liked to relax in as evening drew out the last hours of the day and eased you into night.

He shuddered at the thought of the night.

Her eyes were staring straight upwards, wide as if taking in a panoramic vista but dull as if they had been left out in the sun for too long and the colour had faded. Her hands gripped her dress, stiff claws frozen in the act of tearing it off. She looked like a corpse. The rosy glow that had been ever-present in her ever-smiling face had gone, perhaps exiting with the green of her eyes. It was difficult for the boy to tell if her chest was rising and falling, the in and exhalations being so shallow, they may as well not even bother to take the air through her lungs. It wasn't exactly giving her life.

The boy wondered if she still had a pulse. With every part of her being seemingly absent, had her heartbeat left also? Had it stayed behind to be the captain of the sinking ship, remaining until the last gasp? He felt he should prod her. Poke her with the shaft of the pitchfork. See if she moved or reacted. He didn't, though. Fear held hands with reason and skipped away with his senses through fields of golden terror. He was not going to go near the woman until he had to. He wasn't going to move until he was forced. Until it was time. He dozed, slipping between a light sleep and the knowledge that sleep could finish him. The hours sang to him, a Harpie's song designed to lure him to his doom.

When he snapped free of their spell and shook his head, rubbing his eyes, the shadows were lengthening.

It's almost time, Time was telling him. You've been stuck there for far too long. Come out to play, it won't kill you.

Except it possibly would.

It couldn't be, though. He had plenty of time. He wasn't going to be forced by anyone or anything into making a decision in haste. This wasn't one of those reality television shows, like Buffy the Vampire Slayer, that had once had the general populace hooked throughout the day. As much as he hated the genre, he would admit, if only to himself, that he watched it. There was something satisfying about watching the girl killing the vampires that had invaded their world. It had, if nothing else, taught him how to defend himself against the undead. Hence his clutching the peaches. Because supplies of silver, one of the few things all such creatures were vulnerable to, were in drastically short supply, the high iron and copper content in the fruit was one of the only easily accessible alternatives. Thus, they had become something that people, particularly the vulnerable ones such as the elderly and children like him, carried with them constantly.

The can felt warm, even though it was cool. It had an innate aura of protection that the boy knew was only in his mind. It didn't matter. The feeling of having even the slightest defence was a candle he wasn't going to allow to be extinguished.

The lack of a can opener was something he was deliberately ignoring.

The rise of the Necromancer had originally been seen as a good thing. It had been welcomed. An archaic term for someone who had the best, modern, intentions. At first, they had been looking at extending people's lives. With the drop in birth rate after the global famine a decade earlier, ways had to be found to allow people to live longer. Give the world the chance to recover by giving Man longer to help it. It worked. Science was winning its battle against Nature.

But then, the Necromancers became more ambitious. Why not try to bring back those who had died but who had contributed so much? Great minds who could help even more and prevent such a catastrophe ever recurring.

But it had failed. The scientists and the magicians had always kept their distance. They had circled each other like predatory lions, each desiring dominance but neither willing to step their foot first into the arena. Both magic and science had their own methods for repairing life. Both worked, as far as they could.

They should never have been allowed to join forces. They should have known that it wouldn't work. Even he, a boy, realised it. The dead were dead and must stay that way. When you died, your soul continued its journey into the next realm. There was no return. Opening doorways would either slam back shut or remain open for all to come through.

Initially, they were called 'Re-ans'. Reanimated corpses, was the official term, but it was never going to be used. It wasn't long before the old name was given. From the films and the stories. After all, the resemblance was too close. The blank stare. The inability to speak in anything other than guttural growls and moans. The desperate hunger for human brains.

The zombies were containable, however. At first, anyway. It was when the other things began to appear that the Necromancers realised their mistake. By then it was too late.

The boy watched the shadows reach out to him. Their touch would be cold, he knew, but the cold hand of darkness was nothing compared to the cold hand darkness would bring. He could just see, through the small, dirty window high up near the ceiling opposite him, the wheel of the Volkswagen Camper they had arrived in. He was tempted to run for it. Drive it away. He'd seen it done. His father would drive a block away rather than walk, before he'd given in to his wife's complaints and travelled the distance on foot. And not returned.

But, he couldn't drive, not really. Watching and doing were two different things. Besides, he didn't know where the keys were. And it was out of fuel, practically having coasted the last part of the journey on fumes.

Perhaps she had the keys. They might be in one of her pockets. He'd stay where he was.

After the initial shock of the creatures being let loose, it became more commonplace. Fear became annoyance. Television shows like Buffy turned the hunting of them into a sport and, in certain countries, their flesh became a delicacy. But the boy kept a tight hold on his fear. He didn't let it escape and let complacency dilute it like most others' had. He couldn't shake the feeling that something else would happen. The Necromancers, having brought forth monsters, would feel obliged to right their wrong.

And it would fail.

A genetic mutation, they called them. Must have been trapped on some remote island, away from the usual evolutionary trails. Maybe a volcanic eruption or landslide had forced them to find other territories.

Yeah, right.

The Necromancers, having dissolved the veil of death and created something that couldn't really be called life, had taken their science-magic mess and...

They weren't a genetic mutation. They were not an evolutionary aberration. Dragons. They were dragons. At least they weren't particular about who they burned or ate. And, in the main, they only came out at night. Like the monsters. Regardless, normality was destroyed. Cities and towns and villages became smouldering ruins littered with bodies.

So. The boy huddled in the basement. They'd been travelling, he and the woman, for a week and he was exhausted. A lack of food, the scarcity of clean water, the constant moving. It was draining. Usually, they would never dare venture out after nightfall, but a dragon was laying waste the town they'd last been in and they had no choice but to leave. It had not been pleasant. There was no shelter on the long road. The camper van gave minimal protection and, the previous night, had lost its rear window as they drove to escape a vampire and a zombie hoard.

The house was abandoned, as so many were. They'd taken shelter. Their spirits were higher than they'd have expected, the mix of adrenalin and relief being intoxicating.

The boy's stomach grumbled, too loud in the silence. No birds sang outside - they hadn't for longer than he could remember - and the only sound was his own breathing, a shallow pant. His stomach's complaining made him remember how long it had been since he'd eaten anything. He looked at the peaches. Perhaps it could be his last meal before he gave in and let himself be taken. Rather than the weapon it was intended to be, it would ease his suffering.

He shook his head. Even if he could open it, he would eat the contents. He needed them to survive. He wasn't going to let himself be bitten or eaten or burned. His father told the boy he was a survivor, like his dad. His father had been wrong - he hadn't survived. The boy was going to survive because he had to prove his hero, his idol right. A legacy to carry on through a dying world. It was pointless, he knew. Who could he show it to? Who could he tell? Who would care?

He would.

Suddenly, the encroaching shadows vanished, stealing the light. The darkness was so abrupt, the boy whimpered. He felt the air become heavy, as if pushed down with great force, then he heard the dragon's howl as it flew over the house. He could smell burning, though he didn't think it was the building itself. A beat of the great leathery wings shattered the window, sending splinters across the floor to carve ice skating trails in the dust. He drew himself in, gripping the can tighter, drawing determination from its metal surface. It would be useless in any fight with such a creature. In fact, there would be no fight. There would be life - if it could be called that - and there would be death. He hoped the next realm offered something more than this one.

There were screams.

Were there people out there? Others, like him, fleeing for their lives with no idea if they'd ever know what a life was again? He thought about running to the window to look out, but it was too high for him. He could leave by the door, climbing the stairs to the ground floor and bringing them in, offering them sanctuary in the basement with him. But, what about her? The woman? They wouldn't understand. And, if he did, he'd have exposed his hiding place to the beast.

He huddled, wrapped his arms around himself and burying his head against his knees. He moaned softly, concentrating on the sound to drown out the noise from outside. The cries. The roars. The whoosh of the flames and the thrum of the massive wings.

He couldn't help them. He couldn't help them. He couldn't help them.

So he didn't. He left them to their fire and their terror. The corner held on to him and he wished he could push back into the walls. He wished he could become one with the structure. Be swallowed by the brickwork. He even pushed back but the wall resisted, as it must. If it were to acquiesce to his request, it would lose some of its solidity. It would weaken. Collapse. It stood against creatures that were meant to be mythical, not real. It would not compromise itself for a boy.

The woman ignored them also, though she could do nothing else. She looked straight ahead, the ceiling taking all of her attention as whatever ailed her had taken everything else.

The dragon dropped sharply, clutching the camper in its claws. The boy saw it lift up and then heard it crash back down. More screams accompanied the destruction of their vehicle and he felt it had crushed him too. The van was their only way out, if he could have found fuel and figured out how to drive it. Now, they were trapped completely. There was no way they could walk out of there. The house was so remote, any attempt to walk away would only take them more rapidly to those who would feast on them. The beast's wings beat again and it left as quickly and as simply as it had arrived.

And then, without warning, as if Time had held its breath while the dragon hunted and let it out explosively enough to catch up with itself, it was night.

The boy was taken unawares. He'd always been fully conscious of how far away the twilight was. He had always been prepared. He didn't know how to react and could only look from the woman to the can and back again. He waited. Somewhere, he could hear a clock ticking and it felt as if his own pulse was synchronised to the tick of the tock. He realised he was shivering, though it wasn't cold.

A footstep. That was the first sound. A creak in the floorboards in the room above. That was the second. A low laugh was the third.

He tensed, his training tightening his muscles without him realising. The footsteps continued upstairs. Their gait was measured. He could tell it wasn't the shambling shuffle of a zombie. It was more deliberate. Calm. A person would not be so steady. They would be running and hiding and searching quickly, intent on moving on at such a late hour. A 'Re-an' dragged its feet as if the weight of their hunger was carried about their entire body.

No. The boy knew. He could tell. Only one thing would be so sure of itself that it didn't concern itself with rushing.

Vampire.

He looked at the woman, wanting so badly to move to her and drag her where she might be safe, but he was unable to. The time was upon them and, if he couldn't bring himself to touch her during daylight, he certainly couldn't after night fell.

The stairs now. They were carpeted in a thick plush that belied the threadbare state of the rest of the world. It should have hidden any sounds from someone descending, but it appeared it wanted to make sure the boy was fully aware of his impending doom. All it could manage was a soft, flat thud, but it was enough for the boy to be able to imagine where the creature was on the stairs. He was coming down slowly, leisurely. The boy pictured the vampire standing tall, sauntering, eager for the kill but enjoying the sport.

The boy moved, finally. He was stiff with inaction but adrenaline's anticipation lubricated his joints. With one eye still on the woman, he stood, can of peaches held ready. He spun at the sound of broken glass breaking. The shards were bouncing across the floor, fallen from the smashed...

Crawling through the window, dark eyes staring, decaying nose sniffing the air, the zombie moaned. It pushed through, sending more pieces of glass tumbling to the floor, until there was more of its torso in the basement than out. There was a pause as it instinctively tried to hold its balance, then it fell through, landing heavily, the sound of its arm breaking echoing around the room. The boy was torn. Vampire or zombie. Monster or monster. He didn't know which way to turn. Either way would mean his attention was diverted. The woman was oblivious to his plight. He could, potentially, forget about her but, in reality, he knew he shouldn't. He had to be fully aware.

Buffy had taught him much, just as she no doubt had many of the other viewers of her reality show. Never turn your back. Never show fear. Never be unarmed, even if your only weapons were your fists or a can of peaches. And never, ever, run. You would leave yourself open to attack from quarters other than those you were escaping from. Your senses would be tainted by the fear your feet were using as fuel. And your back would be presented to your pursuer - see rule one.

He was scared. His mouth was dry and his heart was trying to pummel its way out of his chest. But he held his ground. The zombie had rolled over and was trying to push itself up. Twice, its broken arm gave way and it - once a 'he' - fell back down, its face slamming into the floor. Its face was a bloodied mess. The nose twisted. Through the left cheek, some teeth were poking through the flesh as if they were trying to chew their way out. On the third attempt, the zombie managed to stand upright. It turned to the boy. It moaned, a long, low growl of hunger.

The boy raised the can. He couldn't open it but, if he brought it down hard enough on the zombie's head, the impact might be enough to split it open - 'it' being either the skull or the peaches. Both took a step towards each other. The basement door opened. The vampire took its own step. The boy glanced over. Female. There were not so many of those. Something to do with their superiority meaning, genetically, there weren't so many needed. So the Necromancers said.

They all died the same way.

Zombie and vampire looked at each other then to the boy. The vampire's fangs lengthened, much as the shadows had. A sign of impending attack, the teeth extended down, past its chin. Perfect tools for ripping a neck apart, according to the scientists who dissected the specimens. It crouched, preparing, and the boy was initially unsure who was the intended target, him or the zombie.

It didn't matter. If the latter, then the boy would be next anyway. The vampire hissed. The zombie growled. Both lunged at the boy.

He was young. He was afraid. But he was trained. He threw the can into the air, distracting the vampire. His hand reached out and he grabbed the pitchfork, spinning it up and out. He braced himself.

The zombie was unable to stop itself. It had no sense of reason. No sense of self preservation. The same could not be said for the vampire, but its momentum was too great to be halted. Both were impaled, almost in the same second. The thick, muddy tines of the fork stabbed into, through and out of the zombie's body. The wooden shaft of the handle pierced the vampire's chest. Both creatures stopped abruptly, looking down at the makeshift weapon.

The zombie staggered back, sliding off the blood-slicked spikes. It dropped to its knees, head hanging. The boy didn't know whether or not it was dead and didn't have the chance to check. The way it slowly leaned to one side, eyes closed, and slumped, unmoving, seemed to indicate it was.

The vampire took hold of the pole with both hands. It looked at the boy, its slanted eyes narrowing to thin scars of red. The long teeth glistened and the mouth curved into a sneer. Rather than pushing away, attempting to remove the pitchfork's handle, it pulled. The boy stood his ground, his feet planted firmly. The vampire seemed unconcerned with bringing the boy towards him. Instead, it pushed forward. The wooden pole slid easily through the skewered chest and, within seconds, the vampire was closer.

It was close enough for the boy to feel, and smell, its rotten breath. Close enough for its hands to release the pitchfork and grab him. Close enough for its mouth to open and the long teeth to bite. A sound came from deep within its throat. At first, it sounded like a snarl. It was a dirty, cloying sound that assaulted the boy's ears. The noise increased and then there was no mistaking it.

Laughter.

The vampire raised its hand and gripped the boys neck, lifting him up so his feet hung in the air. The boy dropped his weapon and the metal fork clanged against the ground with the other end making a tearing sound as it twisted inside the beast - which seemed indifferent to the ripping of its body. It leaned forward. Saliva, hot and sticky, dripped from it opening maw onto the boy's cheek. The vampire's head moved back slightly to prepare for to strike.

The boy was thrown back. He hit the cabinet and the the floor. He scrambled back, preparing to leap up in defence but stopped.

The vampire was screeching. It arms were flailing as it tried to grab hold of the thing on its back. A thing that had its own teeth deep into the neck of the vampire. A thing that, again and again, tore the flesh away. The vampire, somehow, managed to grab its assailant and yanked it forward, over its shoulder. Its head shot down and there was a different screech this time as the teeth found their home and left nothing of the neck of its foe.

The boy cried out when he saw the now dead body. He sobbed as the vampire pushed it away and stood. His eyes filled with tears as the creature wavered, clutched its savaged neck and fell forward.

A silent second passed, running through the carnage as if it had been waiting for its chance.

The boy ran over to the prone body of the woman. He took her hand and held it tightly. He let his grief take him.

Even in her undead state, Buffy had carried out her maternal, final, duties and saved her son.

The boy.