Andre M. Pietroschek
FOR ABANDONED SHE WAS NOT! A Vampire-Attack Survivor Story
FOR ABANDONED SHE WAS NOT!
© Andre Michael Pietroschek, all rights reserved
Disclaimer: No warranties!
© Andre Michael Pietroschek, all rights reserved
Disclaimer: No warranties!
A prologue so crappy that it cannot be written by AI:
The horny fools daresay it is cozy porn,
yet reality proves bloody murder sworn!
The emotional dream of longings & love,
yet vampire crimes defy the lord above.
The urban jungle is now a hunting ground,
so regularly human corpses can be found.
Avoid those lies about Hollywood Dracula,
excempt is only our dear Count Schwabcula!
The story begins:
In a world steeped in shadows, a solitary vampire huntress emerged from the depths of despair, defying the odds in the wake of an ambush that no one anticipated.
Valerie Brewster, ensconced within the confines of a paramedic vehicle, found her faith tested in a crucible of uncertainty. I, too, felt the fragile thread of my beliefs quivering in the wind of doubt. The unexpected twist in our narrative was the romanticized image of a lone drifter, a figure society dismissed as inconsequential.
Just four hours prior, our investigation of a suburban construction site had spiraled into an unwanted descent into purgatory. This was no tale spun by the likes of Stephen King, nor a simplified horror story akin to *Thirty Days of Night*. As I gazed upon that fierce red-haired warrior, a swell of pride surged within me for choosing to confront the darkness rather than retreat into the safety of ignorance.
Valerie had been dispatched by a clandestine society with the resources to employ vampire hunters. I knew little of their machinations, nor would I ever fit into such a role. My life had unfolded in the shadows of homelessness, drifting from place to place, a former life immersed in sales, finance, and administration. I had learned the harsh lessons that street life imparts to those who endure. She had come to investigate the unsettling silence that had enveloped the city, where the shadows of the homeless had inexplicably vanished, leaving behind only whispers of a rare occurrence.
Most vampires were nothing more than insatiable predators, launching themselves upon unsuspecting victims in a frenzied thirst for blood. Yet, amidst this chaos, a greater Evil seemed to loom, challenging the very fabric of divine order, if such a design existed at all. I was uncertain; perhaps one might inquire of God.
My purpose had been simple: to scavenge for lunchboxes, pilfer tools, or keep myself occupied, if luck did not favor me. Yet, I stumbled into an ambush, a grim reminder that the innocent often find themselves on the hit list of the damned. Vagrants and drifters, it seemed, were not known for their subtlety.
If memory served, the brave huntress had arrived at the construction site, keenly observing from a distance before slipping inside, much like I had, driven by the primal instinct to survive the night. The suburbs, quieter than the urban sprawl, offered fewer threats from youthful gangs but also less support for those in need.
Wolves hunt in packs, and vampires, those cunning creatures, often gather to obscure their tracks. Here, a fledgling mob was forming—reckless and inexperienced, likely a band of junkies or drunks transformed into bloodsuckers under the influence of a more sinister mastermind. It made a twisted sort of sense, though science might argue that vampires were mere figments of folklore. Yet, the vampires themselves paid no heed to such skepticism.
I began my search, hands busy with the pursuit of survival, oblivious to the presence of the huntress until shadows collided, and the night unfolded its secrets.
The struggle ignited, a tempest of chaos fueled by desperation and fury, as a misguided assailant transformed a simple mugging into a savage assault. The red-haired warrior fought with the ferocity of a wild alley cat, determined to ensure that her attacker would not escape unscathed. The brawl belonged to her until it evolved into a perilous dance of survival.
As she executed her fierce routine on the fallen foe, I found myself barely able to grasp the madness unfolding around us. The assailant's companions seized the opportunity, encircling the huntress like vultures drawn to a feast.
In that moment, I faced a choice: to retreat and safeguard my own life—a cowardly yet sensible decision—or to summon the courage inspired by the gallant plastic knight figurines of my youth, rushing to her side. She bore an uncanny resemblance to my daughter, but that was not the heart of the matter.
There I stood, acutely aware that one woman stood defiantly against overwhelming odds, a beacon of hope in a world that had long abandoned faith. Opposite her, a gang of misfits embodied despair itself, a manifestation of every reason we had to lose our joy. They were the epitome of selfishness, their hollow smiles a grim reminder of all that had dragged us down into darkness.
Though the leader's threats reached me only as muffled echoes, I resolved to assert my presence. With no glass to hinder my resolve, I grasped a brick, channeling every ounce of faith and fortitude within me, and hurled it toward the leader's skull. The satisfying crunch resonated, igniting fury among the mob.
At the very least, I had granted Lady Red Hair a fleeting chance to escape. The thought of facing these fiends alone was daunting, yet their hissing and bared fangs did little to intimidate me. Amidst the chaos lay my opportunity for survival—a crowbar, my makeshift weapon, concealed within my jacket.
I had not forgotten the martial arts heroes of my youth. In my own unrefined way, I braced myself for the fray. Two attackers charged through the window, another crashing through the doorframe.
As the brawl erupted, I launched a surprise assault on the first pale fiend, shattering his jaw with the crowbar's handle before driving it into his chest, aiming for the heart. But then, I was struck from the side, two more assailants converging upon me, their bites landing where more cunning adversaries would tread carefully.
I stood on the precipice of unconsciousness, when the red-haired huntress emerged, a beacon of hope amidst the turmoil. The source of my attackers' anguished cries was no ordinary weapon; it was a sinister blend, perhaps an acid designed to ward off any would-be rescuers. Yet, against the odds, I had managed to evade the worst of their wrath, using a torn shirt to dress my wounds and welcoming the promise of a warmer night ahead.
“Pleasure to meet you,” she said, her voice a soothing balm in the midst of chaos.
“You're welcome,” I replied, though the inadequacy of my words hung heavy in the air.
“I’m Valerie Brewster,” she introduced herself, confidence radiating from her.
“Aron Foster,” I responded, feeling a spark of connection.
As the interference that had severed our communication faded, we stepped back into the world, urgently summoning an ambulance.
Reflecting on those moments, the outcome reads like poetry: the vampire huntress emerged victorious, not solely through her formidable skill, but because an unexpected ally—a wandering soul—chose to stand resolutely by her side instead of fleeing into the darkness.
In those fleeting seconds of struggle, the balance shifted, thwarting the bloodsuckers' relentless advance. Even now, I find it hard to grasp the magnitude of what transpired.
THE END
Note: Adam chose, not to narrate this story, so only an older version narrated by AI can be found on my not-monetized YT channel: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HEK55RcpgVU
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