Cry Little Sister

Disclaimer: I do not own The Lost Boys. Sheryl and Wanda belong to me.

A/N: So I was flipping through the channels on Saturday, right? And I came across The Lost Boys on Bravo, you dig? I just kinda stared at the title for a few seconds before something in my brain clicked and I was like, ". . . crap!" So, here I am, a month or so later. I do apologize for keeping you waiting, especially with a cliffhanger. I was lazy for the remainder of my summer, I admit, and now I'm in high school and have homework again. Thanks for sticking with me, though. I hope this chapter will be worth the wait.

IMPORTANT. I've been debating with myself over how to finish this story since I started it. Please, please, if you think I should redo this chapter with an alternate ending, let me know. I'll . . . I'll try to work with it somehow, but be forewarned that it won't be easy for me. Damn my inability to actually finish a story . . . Oh, and this IS NOT THE LAST CHAPTER. I'll get the typos when I update next.

---Chapter Twelve: Ashes to Ashes and Dust to Dust

Her emotions swirled together in a nauseating blur, its dizzying affect making it all the more difficult to stay on her feet. She stared at the scene in horror for what seemed like hours when only a few seconds had passed by. Oh, God, she wanted to move and do something about this! Why couldn't she move her legs? Why was she just standing there, watching the flames with mounting terror? The scent of the smoke reached her nostrils, bringing with it the pungent odor of burning hair and flesh and rubber. Tears brewed in her hazel depths as the foul vapor stung at her eyes, making it harder to see despite her enhanced senses.

"Oh, God . . ."

She finally managed to kick her legs into action, her feet pounding against the road as she dashed toward the burning truck. What the hell had happened? Oh, oh fuck, had Sheryl come looking for her? Had she been on her way to the boardwalk, filled with dread, when the drunk driver plowed into the truck and sent it flying? Fortunately, it wasn't on fire. The other vehicle was, however, and she could suddenly smell traces of liquor amid everything else. Her attention fled from the drunk driver to her mother, who was trapped inside the truck and unconscious.

"Mom!" she exclaimed tearfully. "Damn it, Mom, wake up!"

Wanda tried pounding on the window, but it did nothing to rouse the woman.

"Damn it, come on! I can't lose you!"

She tried to pull open the door, but the handle was hot—too hot, in fact. Her flesh stuck to the searing metal and was ripped from her palm when she yanked it back. Crying out in frustration, she slammed a fist into the window. The glass cracked ever so slightly, but that was it. She continued punching the glass until her knuckles were sliced open and oozing blood. She ignored the pain, intent on saving her mother's life before the flames leapt from the other car and began to follow the trail of gasoline leading toward the truck.

Screaming, she threw on last punch and completely shattered the window.

The heat was growing more and more intense. Where had the rain gone?

"Come on, come on . . ." She leaned into the truck, her hand reaching for her mother's seatbelt. She paid no mind to the splinters of glass that pierced her belly.

Swearing every word in her vocabulary, she tried to undo the clasp that would free Sheryl. She could hear the fire roaring behind her, and it was soon followed by a loud boom. Her heart stopped in panic as she glanced over her shoulder.

The small explosion had rocketed several fireballs into the air . . . and one of them had landed in the pool of gas.

Before she could turn back to her mother, something came out of nowhere and tackled her to the ground just as the truck exploded in a blazing inferno. She let out a bloodcurdling scream as flickering embers and chunks of metal replaced the rain. A pair of arms wrapped around her bleeding stomach, accidently forcing several shards of glass deeper into her skin. She sobbed and shrieked, desperately trying to pull away from whoever was holding her.

"Wanda!" a familiar voice—Marko's, not doubt—said. "There's nothing you can do. She's gone."

"NO!" she cried, struggling. "She can't be gone. She can't, she can't . . ."

Marko eased her back onto the ground and held her.

"I'm sorry," he murmured.

"Fuck you!" she clawed him across the face and stumbled to her feet. "Why the hell did you stop me? I could've saved her, Marko! I could've . . ."

"You would have died too!"

"Who gives a shit? She was all I had!" Tears streamed down her cheeks. She was torn between the urge to vomit, the urge to faint, the strong desire to rip Marko's head off. She heard coughing and spun around just in time to see the drunk driver crawling up the sidewalk.

That bastard! He'd managed to get out of his car when Sheryl could not? What fucking right did he have to get out of this alive?

"You!" she snarled, darting forward and stopping in front of him. With a burst of strength that one her size should not have possessed, she hauled the man up by his collar and growled. "You son of a bitch! You killed her! You killed her!"

"Uh, wha?" he slurred.

She could smell his burnt flesh and blood. Her face transformed into a nightmarish sneer, her fangs beared and her eyes glowing yellow. The man had sense enough to scream as she jerked his neck to the side and sank her teeth into the fleshy surface. Blood flooded into her mouth, and she ravenously swallowed mouthful after mouthful.

"Easy, kid," David said, placing a hand on her shoulder.

Wanda dropped the body as her knees hit the concrete. She tried to catch her breath and stop crying, but it was easier said than done. Her head began to swim with images of her mother as her vision darkened and all sound began to fade. She was vaguely aware of flashing lights in the distance and Paul muttering, "Shit! Cops!" Someone picked her up and steadied her on the bike in front of him, one arm around her waist.

"Let's go."

They sped down the road and never looked back.

---

A/N: (hides under her desk) Don't hit me! I can explain! I know it was extremely abrupt, and it makes things too easy if I decide to make Wanda a vampire. I totally realize that. I've been debating on what to do with Sheryl since chapter one. I had a version in mind where she lived, but it just seemed . . . farfetched? Corny? I can't think of a word for it. Anyway, yeah. Sorry. Please don't eat me with forks and butter. I don't like butter. Use ketchup, if you must.