Raise a Little Hell
The Santa Carla Boardwalk is sacred ground, where the faithful come to lose their heads for the night. In this neon-lit church, the cheap thrill is sacrosanct. Blessed are those who offer themselves up to it, for they can forget for a while their problems and the daily reminders that life is fleeting. There is an order to its candyfloss-and-weed scented chaos, and that order is kept by two things.
One: the human need to pretend that everything is, and will be, okay.
Two: the patrols of khaki-uniformed, beer-bellied rent-a-cops.
Like many middle-aged men in possession of a walkie-talkie and a badge, the security guards take their job very seriously. For a while, anyway. Over the years, the old guard have learned to which familiar faces it's best to give a wide berth, and when it's a good idea to look the other way. And if they forget? Well. That's the kind of mistake you only make once. But there's always a dauntless spirit with a fresh, crisply pressed uniform who ignores the muttered warnings. Who decides it's finally time to clean up the Boardwalk for good.
But the thing about Santa Carla? If you go looking for trouble, you'll soon find trouble staring right back at you.
This particular trouble begins with a parking ticket.
«•»«•»«•»
Dawn is hours away yet as David and his boys - and they are his boys, Max be damned - wander along the Boardwalk. They soak in the familiar sights, kings surveying their kingdom. The arcade, spilling forth sugar-infused youngsters. The whirling lights of the thrill rides. A fortune-teller's booth draped with cheap beaded curtains. Hawkers barking into megaphones, convincing folk to part with their cash for a shot at a rigged sideshow game. A pair of thin-lipped women in sensible shoes standing in their usual spot, handing out Chick tracts. They glare at the boys as they pass, faces tightening with displeasure. REPENT NOW, reads the sign at their feet. JESUS IS COMING.
"Lucky him." Paul winks and does something obscene with his tongue. The women turn away, scandalized.
Yes, everything is as it should be. There's the cattle, distracted with promises of fun, and then there are David and his boys slipping among them, worlds apart. David plucks a lighter from the hand of a human too drunk or stoned to notice, and even if they did, why should he care? He rests a cigarette between his lips and lights up, letting a stream of smoke escape into the night sky.
Behind him, Marko is babbling about something, and David tunes in just in time to hear "So like... what happens if someone drinks my blood?"
"You trying to turn somebody? This ain't a Ponzi scheme," says Paul, cuffing him on the side of the head. "Dipshit," he adds fondly. They wrestle back and forth, elbows and flailing ankles catching indignant passers-by, whose muttered curses fall on deaf ears. And if their faces happen to get a little close, their hands lingering for a little too long, well. They don't much care who sees, either.
Marko extricates himself, panting. "No, but for real," he insists, "What would happen?"
"If someone drinks your blood?" David spins on his heel to face him, walking backwards with the cool certainty that anyone up ahead will scramble out of his way. "They'd turn into a mindless walking corpse with no free will of its own. Never stopping, never sleeping. Too clumsy to hunt, too stupid to protect itself. And come sunrise?" He spreads his fingers in gleeful imitation of a body bursting into flames. His cigarette flares.
"How'd you know that?"
"I read it in a book. You should try it sometime. It'll make you smarter." Paul and Dwayne exchange looks, not bothering to hide the identical grins worming across their faces.
"Bullshit," Marko scoffs, finally catching on. "Like you can read."
Normally David would give him a good kick in the ass for that, but he's in a good mood tonight. So he just smirks indulgently and says, "Go make yourself useful and bring us back some cash."
Always eager to please, Marko falls away from David's orbit and plunges into the crowd. There are plenty of opportunities for a quick-fingered vampire to make a buck on the Boardwalk. An open pocket here, a poorly-guarded bag there… enough to keep them flush with takeout and gasoline. David's Influence can stretch a dollar bill to the point of absurdity.
Marko returns after a spell, flipping a leather wallet from hand to hand. He tosses his prize to David, looking pleased with himself.
"Took it from some loser I heard crying about getting stood up," he explains as David appraises its contents; driver's license, arcade tickets, condoms… and a thick wad of bills.
"Too bad for him," says David, tucking the cash into his coat pocket and throwing the rest back. "Lost his date and his wallet all in one night. Why don't we return it to him?" He smiles a feral smile, the lights of the nearby carousel shifting across his features. "We could make his evening after all."
The boys approve of this idea. As a pack, they turn and retrace Marko's footsteps, giddy with the promise of a good night ahead of them.
Later, drowsy and sated, they return to their bikes to find a surprise waiting for them. Yellow clamps have been fixed to each of their front wheels. Beside them stands a security guard, all paunch and distilled conservative malice.
"These your bikes?" he grunts, eyeballing the boys like they're something he's pulled out of the tide. They eyeball him back, and he shifts uncomfortably. "Illegally parked, no license plates… pushing your luck, ain't ya?" He pulls a parking ticket from his breast pocket and holds it out to David, who makes a show of delicately taking it from him. "The good officer asked me to give you this. And a message; if you want your bikes back, you can head down to the precinct and pay this in pers-" he trails off, blinking, as in one swift movement the clamps spring open. They collapse to the boards with a metallic thunk.
"I'll get right on that," says David, deadpan. Paul and Marko howl with laughter at the expression on the old man's face. Dwayne offers him a shrug - what can you do, man? And David simply stands there, with the aura of a man who has the world exactly where he wants it.
"You won't be laughing when your bikes get impounded!" fumes the security guard, though his posturing is mostly lost beneath the gut-churning roar of the boys' engines as they mount up. "And put on a damn helmet!" he yells after them as they peel away, down the wooden steps and onto the beach, spraying up sand in their wake.
He's still scratching his head over the busted wheel clamps when the rustling of paper catches his attention. It's the parking ticket, caught on the Boardwalk's railing and fluttering in the sea breeze, mocking him. He snatches it up and crumples it into a tight ball as the sound of the boys' bikes fades beneath distant waves.
«•»«•»«•»
That would have been that, the natural order of things restored, had the rent-a-cop simply left well enough alone. But from that night on, whenever David's boys roam the Boardwalk, there he is, his beady eyes fixed their way.
"Think he's got a crush on us," Dwayne mutters, as they arrive at the Boardwalk and immediately spot him on patrol, surveying the crowd. His expression sours when he notices them, then crumples into disgust as David smirks and blows him a kiss.
"He'll forget about us soon enough. Or someone will educate him in the way things work around here."
"And if they don't?"
David doesn't answer. He doesn't need to. Instead, he jerks his head, and his boys disperse, melting into the spaces where the roar of music fades to a distant pulse. But he can't resist circling closer to the guard, who from the looks of it is complaining bitterly to his colleague.
"I'm telling you," the second man says as David drifts closer. Unease is written in the lines of his face. "You leave them alone, and they'll leave you alone. It's better that way, trust me."
"Christ, Trevor. They're just a pack of stray dogs. Are you gonna tell me they can smell fear next?"
Typical cattle. So arrogant, and yet so wrong. Well, he'll learn his place eventually. David lets the crowd sweep him along, and turns his attention instead to the hunger beginning to hum its familiar song, thrumming in his veins. It's not unpleasant. On the fucking contrary, his senses have come alive, lighting up with every oblivious human who brushes past him. His muscles tighten in anticipation of the hunt.
Unbeknownst to David, Paul and Marko are lazily threading their way in the opposite direction. They, too, feel the pull of hunger, but the night is young, and for now they're happy to wander aimlessly, shoulders comfortably bumping against each other. When Paul produces, by some act of legerdemain, a silver hip flask and a crumpled pack of smokes, they kick a trio of skinny middle-schoolers off a bench and settle down to watch the revelers go by.
"Hey, look after this for me, will ya?" Paul says, tucking a cigarette behind Marko's ear. Marko gives him a coy smile and swipes his flask. He sniffs its contents experimentally and makes a face.
"What the hell did you put in this? Gasoline?"
"If you don't want it-" Paul goes to grab it back, but Marko deftly moves it out of his reach and takes a long swig. And another. It takes a playful bite in the tender spot in the crook of his neck to get him to stop. He hands the flask over, spluttering.
"The fuck is this?" A shadow falls across the pair, and they look up to find a group of guys staring down at them with matching expressions of naked hatred. Then the man answers his own question, using short, ugly words that he clearly intends as weapons.
Paul rolls his eyes and snorts a laugh. These guys have shitty imaginations - can't even come up with an original insult. But beside him Marko stiffens, his jaw tight. So Paul does what he always does, without hesitation. He puts himself between Marko and the threat.
Four dumbass skinheads. Two vampires. It's already obvious that peace was never an option. So when Paul grabs his own crotch and makes an anatomically improbable suggestion, he's ready for the sucker punch that comes his way. In seconds their standoff erupts into furious shoving, and then Marko's right there beside him, chin jutting furiously, eyes blazing. A thrill runs down Paul's spine. They could take these assholes without breaking a sweat.
Cartilage crunches and blood spurts as Marko's forehead connects with his opponent's nose. Gasps and whoops ripple through the rapidly growing gaggle of spectators. A rough hand grabs his jacket, and he sinks his nails into the soft flesh of an exposed forearm, raking a line of bloody furrows until its owner lets go.
"Hey!" Whistles split the air and the crowd begins to scatter as khaki-clad figures descend on their spot, batons are drawn. It's the security guard, and he's brought company.
"Oop, here comes trouble," Paul mutters. "Time to split." He snatches the advantage the distraction has given to grab Marko's hand, and then they're running, knocking people aside as they pelt along the Boardwalk. The skinheads hot on their heels, they cut across a spinning ride, setting oversized teacups whirling and leaving shrieking children in their wake. The clatter of steel-toed boots fades into the background as the pair loses their pursuers. They vault the railing that separates the Boardwalk from the beach, hitting the sand hard. Then they're on their feet again, ducking under the raised wooden catwalk and letting the dank, cool shadows swallow them.
They lope to a stop when the support struts give way to concrete foundation, blocking the way. Trash clusters in piles amid the beams. Marko flops down in a relatively clean spot, spitting out sand between giggles. His chest rises and falls, less with fatigue than exhilaration.
"That was fun."
"You 'lil maniac," Paul says, tenderly plucking the cigarette from behind Marko's ear. There's a smear of blood on Marko's forehead, and it sends a trickle of warmth through him. He's right, that was fun, and it's awakened a familiar need that fizzes in their veins, begging for release.
The brief flare of flame from his lighter casts them both in a warm glow. Then a ragged voice yells in the dark, "That was a mistake, queer!" and four figures blunder through the shadows towards them, one still clutching at his face. The sharp tang of blood mingles with the smell of the ocean.
Paul and Marko exchange a grin, and at long last, they allow the bloodlust to take them.
«•»«•»«•»
As summer rolls in and the days grow longer and hotter, Santa Carla swells. Tourists pour in from out of state, desperate to partake in whatever tarnished magic the city has to offer. One night, David picks up a lost waif in a rare moment of charity and definitely not because Max told him to. Which turns out to be a mistake, because from then on he's stuck on babysitting duty. Not that he's resentful, or anything.
"Are you going to hunt with us tonight, Star?" he says pointedly. "Or are you gonna disappear on us again like last time? I'm not carrying you home if you pass out."
"I'll manage." Star wraps her arms around herself. Unlike the boys, she hasn't gotten used to the chill that comes with their gift. A gentleman might offer her his coat. David is not a gentleman.
The gang leaves their bikes in a dingy alley between a deserted laundrette and a blacklit record store. Then the five of them set off along the Beach Strip, the lights of the distant thrill rides beckoning them closer.
"How 'bout hunting our buddy from the Boardwalk?" Paul suggests. "There's good eating on a pig." The chorus of snickers in response takes on a brittle edge. They all know she won't survive much longer without feeding. Star gives him a withering look and falls behind the group by a few steps.
Marko throws his head back with a groan. "Fuckin' picky eaters."
Dwayne says nothing, but side-eyes David as if it's his fault their 'sister' is stuck in denial. Or maybe she thinks she's better than they are. In any case, they can't hold her hand forever. The world is cruel for a vampire out on their own. Especially a vampire who doesn't even have grown-up fangs yet.
They duck in and out of storefronts whenever the fancy takes them. Fingers dip into displays of candy bars and cheap plastic tat. At some point Paul acquires a squeaky vampire bat on a keychain, which he clips proudly to his belt. They sneak into the cinema, breaking in through the fire exit to catch Freddy Krueger terrorizing a bunch of teenagers. It isn't until the credits roll and they spill out onto the street that they realize Star has up and disappeared.
Marko stops re-enacting the movie's final battle with Paul long enough to ask, "Think she's gone hunting?"
David makes a non-committal noise, despite his annoyance. "Hmph. Guess we'll see."
The hours trickle away, at first golden-bright, then stained crimson, then pleasantly rosy as the boys bask in their post-hunt afterglow, disheveled but satisfied. But Star does not reappear. Finally, the Boardwalk begins to wind down, spilling stragglers out onto the street and the beach. One by one the rides coast to a halt. Silence reigns in their stead.
David's boys are growing impatient. They huddle together beneath a decorative arch, out of sight of the cleaning crew.
"It's only a couple of hours 'til dawn," Dwayne points out. "We can't stick around here forever." He's not wrong. No vampire wants to get caught out in the open at sunrise. Paul and Marko shuffle their feet, antsy. They're anxious to be gone too, and David doesn't blame them.
"You boys go on ahead. I'll find her." There's the briefest of hesitations, but no one objects.
"Keep an eye on the sky," Dwayne says in parting.
Which is how David winds up prowling the deserted Boardwalk, his mood blackening with every precious minute that slips by. While the boys have an uncanny knack of finding each other amidst a crowd - it's their blood, like calls to like, after all - Star's blood is weaker, closer to a human's. And this place is thick with the scent of human.
Eventually he stumbles upon a loose circle of humans on the beach, sitting around a campfire. And there among them is Star, half-feral, tearing into a pizza as if it's the first food she's had in weeks.
"Whoa, skinny girl's got an appetite!" says the grizzled-looking guy sitting next to her, to a chorus of quiet chuckles. The fire spits as somebody chucks a scrap of grease-stained cardboard into the flames.
"You don't want to do that," David says, stomping over. Star ignores him, doubling down by shoving another bite into her mouth. "Star." David's tone shifts, danger lurking beneath the surface. "C'mon, we're leaving."
Star looks up at that, and wipes a smear of sauce from her lip with her thumb. In the flickering firelight, it could easily be blood. That might have even been funny if David wasn't so pissed.
"I'm staying here," she says, defiant.
"No. You're not." The chatter around the fire dims as Star's new friends turn to stare at the rude stranger who has just wandered into their midst. The atmosphere rapidly cools.
"Hey, you deaf?" a voice calls out. "She said she wants to stay with us!"
"Wasn't talking to you," David replies, without taking his eyes off Star.
"Well I'm talkin' to you." The woman who stands up is pushing forty, built lean and tall and with the bearing of someone who suffers no fools. She tilts her chin and gives David a scathing once-over. "I've seen plenty of trouble in my day," she says, fists on her hips. "And boy, you look like trouble."
"There a problem here?" Great. It's the rent-a-cop again, huffing across the sand toward them. He's got a hand on the baton hanging from his belt, the other poised above his walkie-talkie, as if he's about to start a shootout in a western. "Oh." His brow furrows at the sight of David. "I should have known it would be one of you punks causing trouble. Right at clocking-off time, too."
David manages, with difficulty, to suppress a hot spike of anger at the interruption. He considers his options. It would be too easy to snap the man's neck. To let the bloodlust sing through his veins, let it call out to the boys. They might even arrive before the blood cools.
And then what? You can't leave witnesses. Are you going to slaughter the entire beach? It isn't often he feels the firm hand of self-restraint. But he's not a fool either, and the derisive voice in the back of his head sounds an awful lot like Max.
"There's no problem." He lets the tension leech from his shoulders. But the guard advances, narrowing the gap between them until they're nose-to-nose.
"You sure? 'Cause I haven't forgotten the shit your buddies started the other week." That's almost enough to make David's mask of calm slip. But then he feels a slender arm slip through his own. Star's on her feet, and when she looks up at him her gaze is pleading.
"It's okay, really," she assures the guard. "We're leaving."
David feels a dozen pairs of eyes follow him as he pulls Star away, his grip tight on her wrist. He runs his tongue over the points of his fangs, blood still thrumming in his veins. But he doesn't turn back.
They return to the alley where David's bike is waiting. But instead of mounting up, he turns to her, and waits. Star shifts her feet, unnerved by his silence.
"Aren't we going?"
"Not yet."
He doesn't have to wait long. A few moments later, Star claps her hand over her mouth and darts further into the alley to puke her guts out. David sighs, leans against the graffiti-stained wall, and waits for her to finish.
"I tried to warn you," he tells her, once she's finally stopped heaving.
Star spits, wipes her mouth. She steadies herself, blinking away the tears of frustration welling in her eyes. David knows well the pit of hunger gnawing at her from inside out. But he's never had to fight it for as long as she has. It's a little impressive, in a pointlessly stubborn kind of way.
"I don't understand. You and the others can eat just fine."
"Because we hunt, Star." David says sharply, his patience evaporating. "I feed when I need to. You're starving yourself, and your body is rejecting what it doesn't need. You can't ignore the bloodlust and hope it goes away."
"I never wanted this." Star's fingers curl into fists. Anger. Well, at least she's no longer feeling sorry for herself. "You tricked me-"
"Did I?" David cuts her off. "Or were you desperate enough to take the first thing coming your way that looked like kindness?" That hit a nerve - he meant it to, but the wounded look Star gives him is raw. He swallows the rest of what he wants to say and mounts his bike. "C'mon," he mutters. "Sun's coming up soon."
He holds out a gloved hand. Star eyes it warily, as if it's a snake waiting to bite her. This is it, thinks David. If she walks away, I'm not going after her.
Then her fingers curl around his arm, and she pulls herself into the saddle behind him. Her anger has ebbed away, leaving her sullen and silent as David races them both back to the safety of their cave before the hated sun can touch the horizon.
It should feel like a victory.
But it doesn't.
«•»«•»«•»
As summer wears on, the boys' tolerance for waiting out the long, sun-drenched days wears thin. The mood in Santa Carla has subtly shifted, tension building like the atmosphere before a storm. And, as with anything under pressure, it's only a matter of time before something has to give.
Even the tourists are wary these days, sticking together in groups, always casting glances over their shoulders. Hunting has become a challenge, one they initially welcomed, but now is beginning to feel more like a chore.
The gang is in their cave, lounging around a half a coffee table scattered with the remnants of an abandoned game of Bullshit. (What had started as a way to while away the hours before sunset quickly devolved into accusations of cheating when it became clear that David was, in fact, using his Influence to cheat.)
"I'm bored." Marko's voice echoes off the cathedral-like ceiling.
"Want to play again?" David suggests. The only reply is the flurry of cards Paul flings at his head. He bats them away, chuckling darkly, before hauling himself out of his rickety wheelchair. "Alright. On your feet, boys."
"Wait, wossgoinon?" Dwayne is lying on a threadbare rug, but consents to being pulled upright by the others, yawning.
David spreads his arms. "Didn't you hear? Marko's bored." His lips curve in a wry smile. "So let's go have some fun."
The Boardwalk's Haunted Castle looms over its surroundings, in the shadow of the great Ferris wheel. An edifice of faux-brick and painted-on gravestones, it's home to a motley array of animatronic ghosts and ghouls. Padded, coffin-shaped carriages carry its passengers through a maze of rooms, where they are treated to a series of spooky scenes replete with cobwebs, portraits with eyes that move, fake fog, and sound effects piped in via tinny speakers.
And, tonight, four bored vampires.
They scale the fence and sneak around the back of the building. Tucked away behind garbage bags is a maintenance door, locked only with a padlock. It's practically an invitation. The lock hits the ground with a dull clang, and David dips his head in a mocking bow, gesturing for the others to go first. But when it's Star's turn, she catches his arm instead.
"David." Her face is tight with dismay. "This is cruel."
David holds her gaze. "That's why it's fun."
She stalks off, shaking her head. But the others are moving on, her protests already forgotten. Stepping as softly as cats, they slip unseen into the warren of maintenance passages that riddles the castle.
On the other side of the partition, sinister sound effects mingle with squeals of fright and laughter. Teenagers jeer and lean out of their carriages to high five the jerky animatronic skeletons. Then everything falls abruptly silent as the power goes out. The animatronics stiffen, and the passengers are plunged into darkness.
At first, no one seems too bothered. After all, rides do malfunction from time to time. The children giggle nervously and clutch their parents. A group of teens debate whether to get out of their carriage and walk the rest of the way. Another pair shrugs happily and takes advantage of the darkness to make out.
Then the scrabbling noise starts.
Impossibly, it seems to come from overhead, but without lights or windows the darkness in the castle is absolute. There are other noises too - the scratch of nails on rough paintwork. The jangle of chains. Deep, heavy breaths. Sounds that spark every flight-or-fight instinct humans have carried with them from days gone by.
Someone's Dad, in the tradition of dads everywhere, has a mini torch on a keychain. He clicks it on and shines it in the direction of the noise. The beam lands on a black-clad figure, scuttling along the ceiling on spidery limbs. It stretches its neck, eyes glowing. Then it opens its mouth and hisses.
The couple making out in the next room bolt upright when screams echo along the corridor. Then their carriage rocks violently as someone - or something - lands heavily on top of it. Clawed fingers rake through their hair, tearing shrieks from their throats.
"Who the hell is that?" the braver of the pair demands, voice trembling. There's no reply. "Hey!" they try again, "say something, asshole!" A low chuckle sends them scrambling out of the carriage and for the exit.
They don't get very far. A hand bursts out of the wall, clutching at faces, necks, whatever it can reach. The thin plywood splinters, and an inhuman face presses against the hole, twisted in glee. "Heeere's Marko!"
Panic swiftly descends on the castle as the herd makes a mad dash for the exits, only to find themselves turned around. Parents lose their grip on their children's hands. Ankles trip on unseen things in the dark. Fingers are stepped on, and wails of terror fill the darkness. The sinister figures stalk them through the maze of rooms, herding them, snarling and howling like banshees.
By some twist of plain dumb luck, the young couple stumble upon to the entrance tunnel. Up ahead, the glimmer of lights and the pulse of music beckon them to safety. They gasp and stagger for the exit, holding each other up, faces streaked with dust, one nursing bruises, their companion limping on broken-heeled shoes.
Then a man melts out of the shadows. He lifts his head, the unnatural hollows of his face catching the light. Lips pull back over monstrous fangs.
"Boo."
His throaty laughter follows the couple as they flee, screaming, into the night.
There's an emergency hatch in the ceiling, disguised behind a gaudy chandelier. Giddy with laughter, the boys clamber up the unfolded ladder and spill onto the castle's roof. The sea air chills their skin and plucks at their hair. The Boardwalk spreads out before them, an island of life straddling the endless black reach of the ocean. They sit, feet dangling over the edge of the faux battlements. David's hand finds Marko's shoulder.
"How about that, Marko? Having fun now?" Marko raises his face to the sky with a whoop, and the others' voices rise to join him.
Gathered below is a semicircle of outraged parents and sobbing children. And, wrestling his way through the crowd with his baton drawn, the rent-a-cop. He takes one look at the boys, perched on the battlements like a row of malevolent seagulls, and understands exactly what is going on.
"You punks! You come down here right now!"
Paul drums his heels against the castle's painted brick façade. "Wait, what'd he say?"
David smirks. "I think he wants us to come down, boys."
"Who does?"
"I can't see, we're too high up."
"And we just got here."
Eventually a ladder is brought forth, and the guards are drawing lots to decide who among them has to venture onto the roof first when the boys, bored of sitting around and flipping off the gathering onlookers, find a drainpipe and shimmy down it one after the other. The guards advance on them, scowling, no longer able to get away with looking the other way. Not with such a large audience. Or maybe they're finally sick of the boys' shit. There are men in suits here too, playing at damage control, plying irate parents with offers of free food and extra arcade tickets.
"Those boys oughta be arrested!"
"A prank? My little girl said she saw a monster in there! She'll have nightmares!"
"What kind of place are you running here, anyway?"
The guard - their guard, the rent-a-cop - strides over, face purpling with rage. He zeroes in on David, and pokes him in the chest with his baton, hard. "I've had enough of you, you hear me?" he seethes. "You're done. From now on, you stay off the Boardwalk."
The boys bristle. Like hell they will. But they've gotten what they came here for, so David takes a deliberate step away with a glacial smile.
"You heard the man." His tone is casual, but his gaze is made of steel. "Let's go."
The guard follows them all the way to the street, and watches them go with his bushy eyebrows drawn low over his eyes. So, thinks David. That's how it's going to be. Give a man a weapon, and he'll choose war.
Oh well. The night is still young, and the siren call of the hunt prickles in the boys' veins. They'll show this misguided man the way things really work around here. But not tonight. There's an entire city out there to bend to their will.
And they have all the time in the world.
