Unchain Me Brother

He doesn't smell like Alan.

Alan was all sweat and cheap aftershave and ruffled, unwashed hair. The comics he read instructed him on vampires and the clammy chill of their skin; but he always knew his brother wasn't a vampire because Alan was a living furnace. Their parents were too damn broke to afford separate beds, so they slept on a broken down poster bed, usually back to back. Edgar would feel all of that heat emulating off his sibling's body; pressed against his spine, torching his insides. It became so unbearable that he used to kick his smirking brother away, cheeks aflame with their unnecessary closeness. He would recall his brother's breathing; slow and laboured, the boy's muscles tensed as if expecting an attack even if sleep. But Alan never slept. Edgar often wondered how many nights his insomniac brother spent observing the darkness with glassy eyes.

Edgar's memories become unfocused, stretched, fogged over time. He remembers the stark brightness of a comic shop, shelves lined with everything from Superman to girly graphic novels to pornography. An old fifties horror film would be on play in the background on a flickering black and white telly, two stranger parents sprawled next to it in a drug induced haze. Sounds sometimes strike him in the middle of the night; the shouts and laughs and screams of the boardwalk; that whimsical, creaking, archaic carnival trill bleating in the background, ringing in his ears like an immortal symphony. Lights flickering and dying in the night. That cheap taste of cotton candy; rank and overly sweet, sticking to your teeth in pink sugary clumps. Sam Emerson, waltzing into their store like he owned the place with his colourful fashions and expertly gelled hair. The snarky comments that flew between them like firecrackers. The soft bristles of Nanook's fur.

The presence of his brother, forever behind him like a loyal shadow. That weight and silence that was comforting and taken for granted, giving him the confidence to back up his crazy plans and machismo adventures. That grappling, desperate, clinging embrace on the floor as Twisted Sister had met his melting, boiling doom; the intense fear that had gripped them both into a hopeless frenzy.

Memories that swamped together into a colourful, feverish mess like a hot summer night dream.

Then Alan is bitten, and everything turns red.

Red for the blood that splutters from his brother's mouth. The vampire made him drink, her eyes cruel and mocking as she observes her handiwork. Alan is on his knees, free from her deathly embrace; coughing and shuddering violently, arms braced upon the floor. His skin is pale, his own eyes wide and veiled with confusion, as trails of blood and spittle hang from his mouth in bloated strings of saliva. The woman is off guard. Edgar dispatches her far too easily. In a flash, he's next to Alan. He watches pained, as the supernatural strength takes hold of his sibling; coursing though his veins, making Alan eerily calm and the air around them suffocatingly still.

Alan is composed as Edgar gabbles; something about head vampires and salvation and hope. Alan shakes his head, smiling. With a quick motion, he presses a finger to Edgar's lips; silencing his brother. In the dim light of the room, Alan's eyes begin to gently pulsate a strange, toxic ruby. He pulls his brother close, whispering in a low, tender voice.

"Brother...."

Its making Edgar sleepy. This is crazy; they are out on a fucking stakeout. They should be slaughtering the blood suckers left, right and centre; yet Edgar cannot break the easy lull Alan has dropped him into. There is blood everywhere; on his combat trousers and stuck in his hair; a lone drop seeping from Alan's smirking mouth as Edgar seems to drift closer, his head knocking the curve of his brother's neck. Alan is holding him with a fierce determination now, and Edgar has never felt so safe in his life.

But Alan's skin is all wrong. That legendry heat is missing; instead, the surface of his flesh is cool, like the chilled end of translucent glass. He smells odd too; musky and somewhat earthy, like freshly dug graveyard soil. And as realisation hits Edgar, he stumbles back; breaks the spell and stares, startled at Alan, his chest heaving with mortal breaths. And he realises why Alan is not speaking. For when Alan smiles at him in his usual affectionate way, his mouth is full of spikes.

Santa Carla carnival music plunges itself unto Edgar's ears, a consistently twirling, mechanical scream of sickening, mawkish noise. All the comics catch fire. Nanook is now a spitting, barking, howling hell hound with mangy, matted fur growling next to a sickly Sam who bears bite marks on his neck. His parent's heads are now puffing cigarette ends that split and break at the seams, useless to behold; as Nosferatu breaks free from the television set, sending plastic splintering; his black and white carnation ripping the floorboards with grotesque, yellowing nails. A vampire rots and smolders in the bath; only this time it's Alan, his flesh decomposing into a gruesome pool around his body, screaming out Edgar's name, clawing desperately at the side to seek relief. Edgar watches in horror alone on the bathroom floor, scuttling away from the stench of burning flesh. Blood spurts from the toilet, the sink, the pipes...it covers Edgar, and chokes him.

Edgar Frog awoke, alone in his trailer.

The last dregs of afternoon sun drove themselves though the cracks in his blinds. Cold sweat dominated his face, trickling down his back and making him shift ever so faintly, he ran a hand though his hair and calmed his breathing. A slight weight against his chest sent his eyes down to Alan's dog tags that clinked cold against his skin. The sun caught the edge of them, making them gleam in the dying light.

The raw panic which had been tearing at Edgar gradually died down as the man reached for his "frog juice." The last job he had taken on, with Chris and his night stalker sister, had been visibly trying. He'd only taken down one vampire, but still....

"Chris is not here Eddie. But your brother is!""

How had he known? That lone, mocking comment was enough to make troublesome memories resurface. It seems that Alan had been making a name for himself anyhow, to make himself known to even detestable low fledglings like the one he made a good job of. But Edgar could have told you that himself. He knew his brother. He knew Alan always put one hundred percent into everything he did; from putting comics in alphabetical order to becoming a model citizen of the undead. It was what he did; screwed into the inner workings of everything that was Alan. And it was strange, to think of his brother as a vampire. To think of his lanky, morose, sarcastic brother; the grounded one, the realist, who pulled him back to earth when his Rambo mumblings had become too ambitious. He had been the one who succumbed.

It may have been enough of a prelude to ensure he was haunted by nightmares; but the final nail in the coffin had been Sam. Pale, sickly, shaking Sam, fighting the full brunt of the vampiric infection. He'd displayed the bite marks with all the enthusiasm of a man signing his own death warrant. Only later that night had Sam appeared to Edgar, with elongated canines and distorted face; the lingering baby blue of his eyes the only evidence of any humanity. The show down had been fast and brutal; Edgar overpowered Sam, half dragged half carried the man back to his home, where he'd locked him in the small shed outside his trailer. The whole place had been blessed, as it was decked out by crosses and garlic...hardly a comfortable place for a vampire, even a half one. Sam had drifted into sleep as the sun rose, leaving Edgar to mull over his plans and get some prized shut eye.

Only Sam's latest news made sleep in any form nearly impossible.

Alan was returning. To "settle a score" apparently. Once again, Alan would penetrate Edgar's place of security and grounding; his stomping ground, Luna Bay. Edgar's well constructed hideaway had been found, again. It hardly surprised the man though; Alan seemed to have the uncanny ability to always know where to find him. He also had a nasty gut feeling that it had been Alan who'd sent him that accursed dream; over the years, an odd mental link had surfaced between them. Whether it was some weird occult shit or merely the factor his brother was now a supernatural entity, depending on Alan's mood he could be bombarded with all manners of mental delights; be it terrifying waking nightmares or sweet daydreams of beautiful, scantily clad women he had never seen in his life. He tried to ignore the broken looks in their eyes or the fact that their throats were ripped open in fleshy ribbons.

"Compliments on me, Bro...."

His brother's breathy laughter would seep out of nowhere, tickling his ears with it's playful taunt. Sometimes, it was as simple as childhood memories; arguing over the last cookie at seven or comparing female action heroes at thirteen. But it would always be spoilt, no matter how precious a memory. For Alan would smile, and his mouth would be full of spikes.

But some dreams were the worst. Where Alan's touch left him panting, memories as simple as play fights between teenagers evolved into much more; Edgar could almost be fooled by the tenderness present in his brother's eyes and the large aching stab in his chest when the mirages faded, and Alan's voice would whisper that he wanted Edgar with him. They were a team, always were a team; as vampire hunters or vampires themselves. It wasn't that wrong; they had always looked so different, even as children; they possibly weren't even real brothers. Alan's whisper would suddenly develop a breathy husk, sending uncharacteristic tremors down Edgar's back; the man had to grip something hard or shake his head violently to relieve himself of these thoughts, but they were still there, whistling around in his mind.

Whispers that he could show him things. "Immortality leaves a lot to be explored, Bro. I could let you experience things beyond the puny imaginings of humanity...."

It was sick. Sick and twisted, the sort of debauchery only a vampire could sink to. And he hated vampires. At times he even nearly believed he hated Alan.

When his sibling had been turned, Edgar felt as if the walls of his world had crashed in; that the ground beneath his feet had been stripped away. Alan was his only friend, his closet comrade, and one heck of a brother. He'd loved his brother like no person alive; let alone his stoned parents or some fleeting infatuation with some girl. They had been the centre of each other's universe. No one else had paid the two dysfunctional Frog "twins" any mind or care. They had basically raised themselves in a cruel world overrun with filth; especially the undead that had stalked the streets of Santa Carla. As Alan become lost in the shadows, so did Edgar's faith in anyone or anything. He'd become unstuck with his other side.

His other side was now a notorious, womanising, murdering vampiric sociopath with an incestuous fixation on his younger brother.

Alan had hunted down his only other past friend, Sam Emerson. Sam refused to give him the exact details of his turning; but it had been Alan who'd smirked, held the younger man down...Sam, who'd they had shared everything with, their hunters knowledge, adolescent memories and beloved comic books.....and proceeded to tear into his throat.

"It was so weird man."

Sam had recalled the scenario with a weariness and flushed intensity that troubled the Frog. "It was indescribable. As if he wanted me to enjoy it."

He was coming. Edgar could hear his brother's malevolent laughter drifting sweetly on the breeze; his name catching on its tip. It promised carnage. And blood.

"And for you, baby brother. I'm coming for you Edgar, and there's nowhere for you to hide."

The evening was fast approaching, basking Edgar's trailer in a golden glow. Already he could hear the grunts of Sam stirring next door; smell the vile tang of his bile in his mouth. Alan was coming, and he was completely helpless.

He sank into the nearest chair, Frog Juice forgotten, and began to wait.