The Midnight Vampire Trap

By L.S. Richards

Once upon a time, in a town called Hollywood, there was a vampire so very self-assured, so convinced of his immunity to mankind, that he used his ill-gotten wealth to finance --and star in-- a motion picture based on his own life. The vampire's film, in turn, attracted a rabid cult audience, who attended midnight shows dressed as characters in the film, talked to the screen, and threw things in the cinema. Eventually --unable to help himself-- the vampire went to see the show that had sprung up around his show, which was a big mistake, as several of the audience members were not just avid movie-goers but were in fact scientists, who have in their possession information that will change the life of every vampire on Earth forever.

• Language: English
• Publisher: L.S. Richards
• Release date: Apr 7, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311034267

Book preview

Prologue

Desmond Sharpe was a vampire and Desmond Sharpe was an asshole. The very drive and indomitable will that had allowed him to survive the horrific transformation from human to vampire, and to survive the centuries that followed, had also made him an arrogant, egotistical, insufferable jerk. In short, thought Dr. Eleanor Warner, Desmond Sharpe was perfect.

Because wanting a vampire upon which to experiment, and getting one, were two very different things. One was talking about a creature possessed of human intelligence, considerable monetary resources, and supra-human abilities such as the power to disappear in the blink of an eye, kill with impunity, yada yada yada. But then Desmond, dear, narcissistic Desmond, had gone and done what no other vampire before or after had ever done: he used his wealth to finance --and star in-- a motion picture based on his own life.

So Eleanor rejoiced. Elated, she opened her journal.

Why search the world in a fruitless and

expensive quest for vampires, she wrote,

when you can make them come to you?

1

Demonstration

The tavern on the waterfront catered to an international clientele: men from Korean freighters carrying Chinese goods, men from Singapore, Vietnam, Hong King or Java. Men far from home and looking for a fast, cheap drunk. Men difficult to trace when they went missing.

The door opened, spilling noise and light onto the dark street. Two men, an Asian of perhaps forty, tough and ropey; and an Anglo who couldn’t have been more than eighteen, underfed and slightly girlish, staggered out, reeling drunk. The Asian led the way to a nearby alley, then fumbled with the fly of his pants, swaying on his feet. At that, the younger man seemed suddenly sober, suddenly, not drunk at all. He’d been faking all night, plying his victim, and now, when he smiled, moonlight glinted off his fangs.

There was no struggle. The sailor was far too outmatched to resist.

Up the street, five people watched through the blacked-out windows of an unmarked van, a van with some kind of machinery attached to its roof. They were three middle-aged men in expensive suits, a younger, bearded man, and a sour-faced woman of perhaps thirty, her hair pulled back in a severe bun, an unflattering sweep of hair across her forehead.

As the vampire sank his fangs, one of the older men spoke.

Is that…? he said.

Sh! the woman hissed. He can hear you.

In silence they watched the two men embrace, and they watched the victim slump. He killed him, one of the older men breathed.

He had to, the bearded man whispered back, and he opened a small computer, the screen of which displayed a single, glowing word: EXECUTE?

Finished, the vampire released his victim, who dropped, dead, to the ground. The vampire lifted his victim’s wallet, then walked up the street toward his car, to get the chains and concrete blocks, pulling an electronic key from the pocket of his pants. He pointed the key at the car to pop the trunk, and as his finger hit the button, the man in the van hit ENTER.

There was no struggle. A light on top of the van blinked on, and the vampire was aware of a sudden sensation of heat, as though he’d walked into the kitchen exhaust fan of a restaurant, and then blisters ripped across the his skin, bubbling, searing, smoking. One gasp, and he exploded in a violent flash of light, flesh and bone disintegrating, stolen blood geysering into the air.

My God! gasped the eldest of the men, and in response the younger man removed from his briefcase a sheaf of papers marked CONTRACT.

With shaking hands, the three men in suits signed the contract, then exited the van, shooting disbelieving looks at the pool of steaming blood in the street. One by one they walked to their own cars parked further away, and drove off. The young man moved into the driver’s seat of the van, began to start the ignition.

Wait, said the woman.

Exiting the van, she walked to the vampire’s car, stepping fastidiously across the blood. Withdrawing chalk from her pocket, she drew on the wall next to the car two interlocking rings, one red, the other green. Pocketing the chalk, she ran back to the van, and together she and the bearded man drove away.

2

The Galaxy Cinema

That his movie, King of Vampires, was a success, was deeply gratifying to Desmond Sharpe. True, he’d poured millions of his own, and required the studio to pour millions more, into saturation marketing, and true, most mortals were sheep that would do whatever they were told to do, but the fact that it was a hit after all, that people genuinely seemed to enjoy it, was truly touching. And then this happened, this most extraordinary thing: at an ornate old movie palace in Los Angeles, young mortals were gathering for midnight screenings, and they were dressing up as the characters in the movie, they were talking back to the screen, and they were dancing and singing in the aisles.

Oh, how Desmond had laughed when he’d first heard. How marvelous! How wonderful! It seemed the most perfect possible outcome for his little project, unexpected and delightful, a present from the cosmos to himself. Then a thought crossed his mind.

Hey, he said, interrupting Max’s tedious diatribe, "Wouldn’t it be great for those kids if I showed up?"

Across town, in a stark, white laboratory, the woman from the van turned to a panel of executives and said, You’ve seen what can be accomplished. Unfortunately, we consumed the specimen. We’re going to need another one.

Word had gotten out. Advertisements had been placed. Desmond Sharpe was coming to the midnight show at the Galaxy Cinema, live and in person. Tickets were sold out, and the crowd outside the theater, bathed in the colored lights of the Galaxy’s blinking neon marquee, was in a state of near pandemonium. A news van parked up front, in the loading zone.

The limo arrived. The news crew switched on their massive lights and as a delirious scream swept the crowd there he was, chiseled features, waves of black hair, a cape, even; the Byronic ideal personified. He smiled, flashing fangs newly polished, and waved. The crowd went berserk, straining against the interlocked arms of the renta-cops.

The news reporter, a cute Chicana in a short skirt, came up to him, camera in tow.

Desmond! Desmond! Remy Ramirez, Wolf News! Wow, isn’t this amazing!

Remy, enchanté! Desmond replied, kissing her hand, ignoring the giant, fuzzy boom mike pointed at his crotch. Yes, yes it is!

"The world hasn’t seen anything like this since Rocky Horror, decades ago!" Remy enthused.

I will take that as a compliment, Desmond replied, smiling and waving at the crowd, though I think mine is the superior film.

Desmond, you’re famously difficult to interview, Remy persisted, "But you claim you actually are a vampire?"

"And what is