Rated M for violence, language, adult situations, gore- You know, the stuff that comes with actual vampire stories.
The Lost Boys are credited to the writers Janice Fischer and James Jeremias! Owned/distributed by Warner Bros.
Theme/Genre is a Detective, Mystery, with Horror, and if we're lucky maybe a touch of Romance.
This story was inspired by some tv shows and books I've read in the past with security/police/CSI/detective plots. Including my own take on the genre since I actually work in the Security field, hoping to become Police Officer and eventually a Crime Scene Technician in the long run. Anyways, I'm writing this cause I wanted to do something different, something unique, something more than the average Lost Boys fanfic. However that's for you, the reader, to decide. I, of course, do hope you enjoy it in the end. Oh! I also want to mention right now, to those taking the time to read this headnote (btw thank you), that this story won't be about an original character falling over heels for any of our beloved vampire biker gang right off the bat. Nope, instead, this story will take a while to grow any possible feelings toward any of the boys due to our main girl's life choices and hardships. With that in mind, I'm not sure who she will end up with, if any, but I'm going to let the story organically choose in the end. So far I do feel it may lean toward David or Marko but we'll just have to see honestly.
By the way, this story takes place in an alternate universe. Haven't decided exactly what year yet though. And yes, one without the Emersons. Well, till further notice that is. They may show up eventually or may not.
This story does not have a beta tester/reader at the moment so I'm sorry for any mistakes that will most likely occur. Interested in being one for me? PM me! If you like what you have read then please tell me so I know people are
Some killers are born while some killers are made.
And sometimes the origins of desire for homicide is lost in the tangle of roots that make an ugly childhood and a dangerous choice, so that no one may ever know if the urge was inbred or induced. Either way, the ending result: death, can be a fickle thing. Many are scared of it to the point they wrap their life in a safety net of precautions while others evoke it with daredevil like tendencies. We can't forget about those who welcome it with their arms open wide; they are the ones that beg for the Grim Reaper to do his job early. Why? Merely because they too are a part of deaths possibilities. No one is safe in this world of chaos. No one.
Especially when you mix in those who must kill to survive.
-x-
He lifted the body over his shoulder like a roll of old carpet to be discarded. The soles of his boots scuffing against the remaining shard of blacktop in the parking area, before falling silent on the dead grass and hard ground. The night is balmy for November in Santa Carla. A swirling wind tosses fallen leaves, scattering them among the forest. The bare branches of the trees rattling together by force like a bag of bones.
He knows he falls into the last category of killers. Not born a killer but made into one. A life once spent in a faint light of happiness tied into a struggling world forgotten within hours, days, months, even years. The old him piled so far beneath that the only thing left is this wild beast. A beast who only devours others to laugh at their pain. In the end, he is a monster that begs for more bloodshed for he is no longer that timid mortal who once pondered when his 'end' will come. Not since the Grim Reaper had glanced past him, unseeing his figure lost in the shadows; an undying creature's mortal clock no longer ticking. He became something no longer seen by death. Now he knew what he has become and had embraced the truth decades ago. He learned to believe that conscience, rules, laws, serve the individual no practical purpose, and only limit the possibilities since that moment he had omitted guilt or remorse.
A beast does not need remorse after all. Especially over a meal or mortal boundaries. His true self-adheres only to his own code: manipulation, control, and fun.
A broken shard of the moon glares down on the scene, its light faint beneath the web of limbs. He drops the lifeless weight upon chard grass, dried branches cracking from the mass. He then pours the accelerate like a sense of ceremony, due to this being done so many times before, to anoint the dead in a sense before digging his gloved hand into the pocket of his coat.
Then there is a scrape of a match against the friction strip, the pop as it bursts into flame, the whoosh of the fire as it comes alive and consumes; ready to eat. With a flick, the body erupts with heat. And as the fire burns, his memory replays the earlier sounds of pain and fear. He recalls the tremor in her voice as she pleaded for her life, the unique pitch and quality of each cry as her bones cracked and blood poured between those perfect peach lips. The exquisite music of life and death dancing to the keys of anguish. For one delicate moment, he allows himself to admire the scene of familiarity. Allows himself to feel the heat of the flames caress his cool face like tongues of desire, and with an unnecessary intake of air, he closes his eyes to listen to the sizzle and hiss, breathing the smell of roasting flesh deeply.
Indeed a wild beast among men.
Then with no further adieu, he turns and walks away with the tail of his coat dancing to the movement of the wind. The thought of next time, his next meal, already on his mind.
The sight burned its impression into the depths of her memory, into the back of her eyeballs so that she could see it when she blinked against the tears. The body was twisting in slow agony against its horrible fate. Orange flames a backdrop for the image of a nightmare. Dancing, battling against the sky as it stretched, licking at the dead trees.
Burning. . .
She ran, her lungs burning, her legs burning, her eyes burning, her throat burning. In one abstract corner of her mind, she was the corpse. Maybe this was what death was like? Perhaps it was her body roasting, and this consciousness was her soul trying to escape the fires of hell. She had repeatedly been told that was where she would end up. Why would fate lead her to such a scene?
In the near distance, she could hear a siren and see the weird flash of blue and red lights against the night. She ran for the street, sobbing, stumbling. Her right knee hit the frozen ground, but she forced her feet to keep moving.
Run run run run run run -
"Freeze! Police!" The cruiser still rocked at the curb. The door was open. The cop was on pavement, gun drawn and pointed straight at her.
"Help me!" The words rasped in her throat. "Help me!" She tried again, gasping, tears blurring her vision. Legs buckling beneath the weight of her body and the weight of her fear along with the weight of her heart that was pounding like some huge swollen thing in her chest.
The cop was beside her in an instant, holstering his weapon and dropping to his knees to help. Must be a rookie, she thought dimly. She knew fourteen-year-old kids with better street instincts. If she genuinely wanted to she could have obtained his weapon. If she'd had a knife, she could have raised herself up and stabbed him.
He pulled her up into a sitting position with a hand on either shoulder while sirens wailed in the distance.
"What happened? Are you all right?" he demanded. She couldn't help but notice the man had a face like an angel. As quick as the thought appeared it vanished.
"I saw him," she said, breathless, shaking, bile pushing up the back of her throat. "I was there. Oh- shit. Oh- God. I saw him!"
"Saw who?"
"A Kil-BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!"
With a groan, a stumbling hand searched for the black Android phone on the coffee table blindly, fingers grazing over it before grasping the thin frame and lifting it. The dim light of the screen lit up a pale face. Between dark squinting eyes the woman managed to turn it off before covering them with both arms. Her mind already registering the dream of a distorted memory so long ago. It wasn't unnatural for this memory to resurfaces now and then, especially since her recent case took place where she grew up: Good old Santa Carla Californa. A place that has never failed at keeping to its second and more famous title, "Murder Capital of the World," other than its former name.
With a lazy rollover, socked feet hit the ground then muffled thuds trailed after her steps as she made her way to the small bathroom across the hall. The cool water washed over her face with a creak of the faucet.
Behind her closed eyes, she could still see the dark flames devouring the frail body of that woman...
That memory was why she decided to become a Crime Detective in the first place. The dreadful realization that there are people out there who achieve some sick satisfaction by killing others fueled that desire to help those unaware victims. To become a person who can bring justice and stop the senseless act of death.
Upon angling her head up a set of brown eyes met a pale reflection. She pushed back her untamed hair and leaned even closer. Barely twenty-five and she looked like she was in her thirties if she had anything to say about it. Dark rings under her eyes with a permanent frown on her lips being the cause of said judgment. Others would say she looked like a teenager suffering from insomnia which made no sense to her despite the fact that lack of sleep did sometimes play a significant role.
However, there was no time to reminisce about the day she witnessed a murder. It was time for work.