SUMMARY:
The Battle for Santa Carla has come to an end and the gang rises from the ruins beaten, battered, yet all around triumphant. But with the death of one vampire, the floodgates are suddenly reopened. What if David had met the Frog Brothers many years prior to the movie? It's a small world, after all. With a big boardwalk to boot.
Rated T for Language and Violence
Disclaimer: Still don't own the Lost Boys. If I did, I'd be rich. Which I'm not.
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INTERLUDE
Santa Carla, 1987
...
Alan raked his fingers through his hair, itching to pull it taut and rip it out. His feet moved, navigating through the destruction without the help of his mind. He began pacing down a clear strip of debris, his thoughts racing a mile a minute.
Back.
It had been nearly ten minutes since Edgar collapsed and five since he had stopped screaming. Fifteen minutes in total, but a lifetime in Alan's head. How was that even possible? In fact—no. It couldn't be right. He turned around, addressing the first person in his line of sight.
"How long—?"
"Fifteen minutes," Star replied, never looking up. Her head remained pressed into the wall as she leaned heavily against it. The fatigue had gotten to her, unable to keep her upright.
Alan gave the woman a leveled look. "Are you su—?"
"Yes. I'm sure."
The boy sighed and resumed his path.
Forth.
After a quick cleanse of debris and vampire chunks, Edgar had been moved to the sofa. His body remained taut, no longer seizing but occasionally twitching as unseen images passed over his closed eyes. Strands of blond hair glued themselves to his forehead as sweat streaked down across his face smearing soot and dirt. His teeth chattered as his figure shook with tremors, the sound so loud it cut through the thick silence like a knife through flesh.
Alan shook his head and turned from the couch. He needed to focus on something else. Needed to keep himself sane. Distracted.
He needed to keep himself moving.
Back.
He should have gone with Sam and Michael to burn the bodies. An extra set of hands would have fared better with the time crunch on their shoulders. Sunrise was on the horizon—only a few hours away—and with each passing minute, their battleground was at risk of outside discovery. Each landline within the household had been destroyed by the carnage and while Grandpa Emerson kept a vigil watch on the porch swing, Lucy had gone on ahead in her truck, searching for a working phone. Who she was going to call was beyond him, but Alan suspected it was an excuse to take a drive. Get some air that wasn't laced with death, burnt hair, and heartbreak.
The teen scoffed. There was no use in crying over a vampire. They are all monsters in the end.
Alan rubbed a hand down his face, feeling the echoes of a migraine press against his skull. His feet turned on their own, piloting him in the direction towards one of the many broken walls.
Forth.
Soft snores to the left confirmed the status of Laddie—the child was out cold, perched atop a half-burnt armchair. Michael's jacket laid half-hazardedly over his form and Alan felt a jealous pang for the child's innocence. To be put through so much and still be able to sleep soundly amongst the bloodshed was truly a feat. Star remained nearby, never straying too far from her young companion. But even as she laid there, fatigued and grey with change, Alan still did not trust her.
Being left alone with two former half-vampires had the boy itching for a cross. Or some holy water since that had been confirmed to actually work.
His feet had brought him back to the couch. Unable to help himself, Alan felt his brother's forehead. The skin beneath his bangs was hot, sticky with sweat and burning with sickness. The fever was rising.
The teen couldn't take it anymore. He began to gather his brother's body. "We need to take him to the hospital."
Star leaped forward, wobbling on unsteady legs as her fatigue worsened. "No! We don't know what's happening to him," she called out, moving towards the couch. It was obvious she was referring to speculation of Alan being bit. "He needs to be still."
"He needs a fucking hospital! If we don't do something now, he's not going to make it!" Alan batted her reaching arms away and braced his body against his brother's dead weight. At that moment, Sam, Michael, and Grandpa Emerson returned from the outside.
Michael was the first to spot them. His eyes instantly traveling to Star as she began to sway. "Star," he called out, racing to her side. "What's going on?"
But before she could answer, Sam gasped, "Alan! What are you doing?!" The youngest Emerson dropped the trash bag in his hand and ran to his friend's side.
Alan huffed, wrapping Edgar's limp arm around his shoulder. "I'm taking him to the hospital. Get out of my way." He shrugged aside Sam's hands and shuffled past. Michael stepped away from Star and blocked the boy's path.
"Alan, if you just wait a few minutes, my mom will be back with a phon—"
"Fuck off, Emerson!" Alan cried out. He maneuvered his and Edgar's combined weight to glare up at the taller male. "I don't have time to wait around for your mother. Edgar's fever is rising and I don't know if he's gonna make it without medicine."
Michael threw his arms up in exasperation. "How are you gonna get there then?" He began counting off arguments with his fingers. "We got no phone for an ambulance. Grandpa's pickup is busted from parking it in the living room. Edgar won't stay upright on a bike. We don't know if there are more vampires out there..."
"I'll walk if I have to."
"Don't be stupid. You're gonna hurt him."
"I SAID FUCK OFF!" But as the boy whirled around to leave, he lost his footing and like a rock, he and Edgar went down. As Alan landed hard on a pile of debris, Michael lunged forward and caught Edgar's head before it could smack into the floor. A low groan followed the tense silence. Whether the blond had felt the fall or was still experiencing his delusions remained unclear. Michael slowly lowered the teen's head, mindful of stray debris, before turning his gaze to the brunet.
"Alan..."
You're not helping.
"Shut up!" the boy growled, unable to look at the older male. He began to pick himself up, disregarding the new scratches on his palms and knees. An unexpected wetness traveled down his cheeks but the teen refused to acknowledge it as he spoke. "I know...I'm making matters worse here by jumping to conclusions...But please, Emerson. Please help me." Alan gestured desperately to Edgar's twitching form. "He's my brother. He's all I got."
"Alan, my mother will be back soon with the—"
"We don't have time to wait for her!" When it didn't seem like Michael would budge, Alan switched tactics. "If it were Sam, you'd be doing the same thing."
From his position nearby, Sam looked up at the mention of his name. He turned his attention to Alan, then to Michael who scowled at the notion. "Of course I would but that's beside the point!" Michael ran a hand through his hair, choosing his words carefully. "We don't have any way of getting him out here."
"Help me flag down a car or something. The highway's only a mile out. If we can get there then—"
"It's three miles out and you'd probably be better off driving," a voice spoke up from behind Alan. Grandpa Emerson stepped out from the shadows of the broken door frame and gave the group a scrutinizing glance. Then, without pause, he took the last sip of his root beer and chucked it to the side where it added to the pile of broken trash.
Alan narrowed his eyes. Though he may have seemed senile in the beginning, the old man clearly knew much more about Santa Carla's nightlife than he had originally let on. And with the way he had assumed his brother had been bitten during the battle, the boy could not bring himself to trust the other male. Like any hunter, the old man would be itching to stake any possibility of a vampiric change. Over his dead body would Alan let anyone lay a hand on his brother, bit or not. He raised his guard, ready for a battle. No one was going to stop him from finding help—not Michael, not vampires, and especially, not an old fart with a root beer fetish.
Alan would take them all down if he had to.
But it was Sam who spoke next. "But Grandpa, we don't have any way of getting there. Not to point fingers here but you kinda totaled our only ride." All eyes glanced at the centerpiece still parked in the living room. Black steam had begun seeping out from beneath the collapsed metal hood, polluting the air.
Grandpa Emerson humphed before pulling another set of keys out from his shirt pocket. He tossed them to Michael before stepping over Edgar's body, heading for the kitchen. "Just be sure to fill it up with gas this time!" he called before disappearing past the doorway.
Michael fingered the keys before turning to Alan. He tossed them to him. "Bring it around the house. I'll carry him." As Michael bent down to grab the boy, he locked gazes back at Alan, who still hadn't moved. "Go!."
Go!
Alan flinched, the command breaking through his thoughts. He nodded once then turned on his heels, sprinting for the door.
...
Feet pounding on the dirt, Alan ran towards the shed at the back of the house. Earlier that morning, Sam had shown them where his grandpa kept his prized possession, and since the events back at the cave, the teen had nearly forgotten that the third vehicle even existed.
Though the morning sun was just over the horizon, lingering darkness still shrouded the area, its claws set deep into the nearby trees and sky. The boy rounded the house, ignoring the crater-size hole left in the dining room wall, and skidded to a stop in front of the shed. Thankfully, Sam had forgotten to chain it up after they had put the car back. Alan wretched the doors open.
Back.
The boy shook his head. He had to hurry and get back to the house.
Alan gripped the keys, searching for the one that would unlock the car door. "Which one…" he murmured distractedly, trying to distinguish one from the other. His hands wouldn't stop shaking. They all looked the same.
A shuffling sound was heard from the outside. Alan's head snapped to the doorway and the keys slipped from his hand. Footsteps.
"Emerson! That you?!" Alan cried out.
Silence.
"Emerson!"
A long shadow stretched across the opening of the shed, the footstep picking up their pace. Someone—or something—was coming his way.
"Shit!" Alan cursed as he ducked down behind the car. His back thumped against blue metal as the figure's steps reached the entrance of the shed. Heavy breathing followed the newfound silence. If it had been one of the Emersons, they would have called out their approach. Brown eyes desperately search for a weapon. On a workbench above his head, Alan could see the outline of a handle. Some sort of hand tool.
It would have to do.
The footsteps became hesitant as they inched closer.
Go for the eyes.
Alan braced himself, ready to spring.
Don't think.
He ignored the inklings of a migraine.
Act fast.
The footsteps rounded the car.
And strike!
The boy launched himself at the table. He turned effortlessly as his fingers grasped the handle of a hammer and brought it down to the ground like a copycat version of Thor. A sudden growl ignited from the figure's lips as the hammer whizzed by its crouched posture and landed on the floor. Tiny chunks of stone flew from the force of the blow, a crack jutting out through the connecting concrete.
The growl turned savage, followed by a stream of wild barks. Brown eyes blinked as they registered the figure.
"Nanook?!"
The dog was crouched low, ear pinned back and tail straight as it snarled at the boy. Sharp yellow canines were on full display.
Alan immediately dropped the hammer. "Nanook! It's me! Alan." The dog barked, its blue eyes sharp and accusing as it regarded the brunet. Alan slowly dropped to a crouch, both palm wide, open, and displayed. "Easy now..."
He stretched out his hand for the dog to sniff and kept his eyes low. Nanook remained cautious but slowly crept forward until he was inches from the boy. He snuffed, pushing the side of his head into Alan's wrist. The boy relaxed as he shook the husky's fur. "Good boy. Sorry about that. You scare m—"
Back.
Alan winced as his migraine suddenly spread forth. Sharp stabs of pain trickled through the lining of his skull.
"What the fuck—!"
Nanook jerked back as the boy abruptly doubled over. Sensing danger rather than aggression, the husky sniffed hesitantly mindful of the boy's jerky reaction. Alan dropped to his knees, his fingers raking through greasy brown locks. The black beret plopped to the ground, discarded.
Static images flashed through his mind like a flipbook. Pain white as lightning clashed against the walls of his skull, knocking the breath from his lung. His ribs cried out, a phantom force crushing them with each mental barrage. He couldn't breathe! He tried to scream, but only gasped as a voice whispered in his ears.
Back.
"Leave me alone!"
Back.
"STOP!" Tears began to stream from his eyes. Alan tugged at his hair, pulling a few strands free. His nails dug at his skull. Clawed. Scratched. Iched. Trying to reach that parasitic voice.
You have to get back, kid.
Blood ran down through his fingers, dripping to the ground with the tempo of a timer.
Drip. He'd heard that voice before. But where?
Drip. It was so familiar. Why?
Drip. The memory pushed at his skull, trying to break through a blockade. No!
"WHO ARE YOU?!" the boy screamed, his lungs rubbed raw and dry. A broken image flashed across his eyes. Bright blonde hair. Black clothing. A deadly smile.
Back, Alan.
The teeth transformed, elongated into unnatural points. Blue eyes flashed yellow as the man growled.
Backbackbackback!
Fangs lunged forward, dripping with red. Dripping with blood.
GET BACK!
The barrier broke and Alan reeled backwards, cracking his head onto the stone ground. His memories—they were changing. Gaps being filled in, blackouts being relit. But some of these images were not his. Not his eyes he was looking through. His nose bled as everything crashed together like a tidal wave hitting the rocks of a shore.
These were not his memories.
...
Michael looked at his watch and raised it to his ear to make sure it was still working. The ticking reassured him that he hadn't imagined the passing of time. "Where the hell is he?" he asked, looking at his younger brother who stood by the door. "He's been gone for ten minutes. You did show him where the shed was when you took the car, right?"
Sam nodded. "Yeah, it's only around the house. You can't miss it."
"Then I'm going to find him." Slowly, he put Edgar's body back on the ground, mindful of any broken or sharp pieces of rubble.
The younger Emerson tensed, looking nervously out into the dark. "You don't think-?"
"No, Sammy. Believe me when I say we got them all. There's no more."
"But the Frog brothers told me that vampires were like cockroaches. You have to really make sure that they are good and dead before turning your back."
Michael lifted a sharp plank of wood, adaptable to become a stake if necessary. "Didn't they also say that garlic made their skin burn? And that they glowed bright green in the dark?"
Sam scoffed, but didn't contradict him. The eldest smirked and ruffled his baby brother's sooty hair as he walked by. "But if it makes you feel better, I'll bring this with me," he called, twirling the plank in his hand. He made to leave.
But stopped as a flash of white zoomed past him.
"Shit!" he cried, backing up and nearly falling on his ass. "Nanook?!"
The dog whirled around and lunged at Michael, teeth clamping down hard onto the sleeve of his shirt and tearing it as he pulled. Instinctively, the eldest jerked his arm, trying to dislodge the tugging husky. "Sam! Get your dog!"
The teen ran forward and yanked the canine by the collar. "Nanook! Stop it! It's just Mike!"
The dog let go, but switched to barking like a feral animal. Michael backed up, afraid that the mutt would lunge for his face if he made any sudden moves. "What the hell is wrong with him, Sammy?"
"I don't know. He's never done anything like this. Only when you vamped out at me." Suddenly, Sam looked up, the accusation hot in eyes. "Mike…"
"Don't even go there. The fact that Max is dead only proves I'm still me."
"Then why is he—?"
The canine zipped past, knocking into Michael's leg before bolting out the door. His barking continued as he ran. Sam bolted after him. Michael made to grab him as he passed but only brushed his jacket with reaching fingers. "Sam! No!"
"He's trying to tell us something!" Sam called back over his shoulder, "C'mon Mike!"
"Sonofabitch." Michael lunged forward to follow.
"Michael?" Star called from the armchair. She made to move, gently shifting Laddie to the side from where he laid across her. "What's going on?"
"Watch Edgar, Star!"
When he cleared the broken doorway, Sam was already hooking a corner to where the shed was. Michael ignored his grandfather's call of "Where's the fire?" and zoomed down the porch after him. As feet pounded the ground, the staccato beat was broken by a scream of pain. A sudden cry of "WHO ARE YOU!?" pierced through the wooden walls of the shed. Sam reached the structure and disappeared through the door.
Michael didn't think after that. His mind shut down, going primal, his body zapping with raw adrenaline. It wasn't over, he thought. There were more!
His shoulder slammed into the swinging door of the shed, knocking one of the hinges loose. Michael scanned the area for anything—a figure, a shadow, a glint of fangs. His head snapped to the side as Sam rounded the car and gasped.
"Mike!"
The eldest ran, ready to lunge at anything that move. His eyes zeroed onto the ground where the body of Alan Frog laid, arching and writhing. Strangled noises escaped the boy's throat, coated with the wet gurgling sound of blood. Blood. He was bleeding. His head continued to smack against the concrete ground, opening a wound at the back and creating a puddle of red like a dispersing tide. His nose bled like a river, the tendrils running down his cheek and into his mouth.
Sam dropped to his knees, uncaring as his jeans instantly became soaked with blood. "Mike! What the hell's happening?!"
Was this an attack? Michael shook his head, still frozen by the sight. Nanook continued to bark wildly, his gaze never drifting away from the seizing boy. No. If this were an attack, Nanook would have defended the area, instantly rounding on the attacker. No, this was...different.
This was something else.
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