The Human-Undead War Trilogy (Book 1): Dark Intentions (13 page)

Chapter 16

General Cannopolis sprinted to the front line and stared. Half of his assembly had vanished into the night. Confusion slapped every remaining soldier with glee. Fog rolled in from the direction of the enemy lines. Something ghastly was happening, something he hadn’t planned for. Weeks of small, controlled skirmishes between the opposing sides, then the sudden appearance of weaponry—Those damn vampires were brewing something. 

“Report!” he shouted at one of his lieutenants. 

“General—They just—They’re gone!” 

“I can see that. May I get a report from someone who isn’t a complete fucking moron?” Cannopolis snapped. 

A young man stepped beside Cannopolis and saluted. He couldn’t have been more than eighteen, if that. “Sir, Private Johnson, sir! It looked like giant arms coming from the fog, sir!” 

Cannopolis gripped Johnson by his Kevlar straps and pulled him close. “Private, drop the goddamn formalities and tell me what the fuck is going on here!” 

“Giant arms! Hairy and full of muscle, coming from the fog. Twenty feet long.” 

“That’s it?” 

The boy shook in Cannopolis’ grasp. “There weren’t any bodies. Just arms.” 

Cannopolis released the private and looked around in bewilderment. Human Army morale had dipped since the Undead introduced trajectory weapons. Mental health was deteriorating. Maybe the young boy was insane from the war, hallucinating in the wake of such a terrible loss to their front line.  

The lieutenant to his right tapped him on the shoulder. “General Cannopolis, what do you propose, sir?” 

“Jesus Christ,” Cannopolis muttered, his mind whirling. “Give the orders to retreat.” 

“Retreat, retreat!” Shouts arose from all quarters. A stampede of soldiers fled from the line. 

Private Johnson stumbled away from Cannopolis, toward the fog. He looked like a marionette, unable to control his own footsteps.  

“Private, you heard the orders! Move!” 

The private’s head was suddenly shorn clean off his neck, and his body plopped to the ground.  

Cannopolis glanced around. There were no monsters, no attackers, no arms. He’d never seen such cowardice on his opponent’s part. “Show yourselves, you pussies!” He held his Ashmore, aimed and ready. 

Something wet and sticky flew through the air and smacked him on the nose. He pulled it away. An ear lay in the palm of his hand. Roaring, he fired into the fog until his clip of arrows was depleted. He reached into his pack to grab another clip. A sponge-like human organ splashed against his chest. Warm blood splattered everywhere, but he focused on reloading the Ashmore. He glanced up in time to see a leg heading straight for his head. He ducked, lost his footing, and sprawled onto the ground. 

He struggled to one knee. A hand punched him square in the temple. He reached to his ankle, pulled his hunting knife out of its sheath, and sliced in an upward arc before the hand could retract. Something thumped on the grass at his feet. A blood-curdling, inhuman scream erupted from somewhere in the fog. He picked the bloody stump up off the ground. 

Clenched around the elbow of a severed human arm was something unworldly: A hairy, six-fingered webbed hand, brown in color and scaly. Green ooze and black-as-night blood squirted from an abnormal, large vein protruding from the severance point. Cannopolis didn’t have time to figure out what he was looking at before the owner stepped forth from the fog. 

It was gigantic. It stalked toward him, one arm a bloody stump. Its torso was ten feet in the air, and its long legs stretched beyond comprehension with each step. Then the legs shrank to human size as it stepped within reach and the torso lowered to eye-level.  

The creature resembled what Cannopolis imagined a fairy tale troll might look like: Brown, scaly, with elongated limbs of pure muscle. The face was blunt, with a pug-nose, inset eyes, and a shelf-like brow. There was no hair on its head, but black, oily hairs covered its body from neck to foot. Two large tusk-like teeth jutted out from its lower lip. It opened its mouth and screamed, revealing a two-pronged serpent tongue and shark-sharp teeth with bits of flesh hanging from them.  

A chill ran down Cannopolis’ spine. It sounded human. 

Snot flew from its nose and coated Cannopolis’ Kevlar. The creature reared back its hand as if to strike, but its arm stretched back into the fog behind them instead. Then the arm snapped forward like a sling-shot and smacked Cannopolis in the mouth. He gasped and became airborne, dropping his Ashmore in mid-air. He landed hard on a jagged rock. Ignoring the brutal pain that wracked his back, he propped himself up on his elbows. The creature had punched him backward so far that it was no longer visible. He heard a horrible suction noise, and then a leg shot into view, the torso in tow.  

The creature was again within inches of him.  

And it had both of its hands again. 

Cannopolis scrambled, kicking dust into the air. The creature shielded its face. Cannopolis jumped to his feet, knife brandished before him. His back ached with every movement.  

The creature lifted its head to the sky and bellowed an indecipherable string of syllables, followed by a short wolf-like howl. Similar howls replied to the eerie call. Cannopolis capitalized on this and jumped forward, jabbing up beneath the creature’s jaw. The knife pierced through its neck at an upward angle. The creature opened its mouth and gurgled. Black blood sprayed Cannopolis. Through the open maw, he could see his knife running from tongue to palate. 

The creature gripped Cannopolis’ hand and yanked downward, jerking the knife from its throat. Cannopolis reached around his back with his free hand and pulled his mini-Ashmore from the waistband of his pants. He aimed at the creature’s left eye and pulled the trigger. The small wooden stake plunked into the creature’s socket.  

The creature’s throat was already healed. The wound to the eye, however, caused it to reel and screech in agony. 

Cannopolis found renewed energy in the solace that he’d wounded this new creature. He aimed for the right eye and jabbed with his knife. It plunged in. The creature staggered backward, both hairy, scaled hands clawing at its horrid face. Black blood flowed through its fingers and dripped to the ground. 

The pain in Cannopolis’ back depleted his surge of adrenaline. He fell to his hands and knees, sight hazy. The creature continued to step back, howling. Cannopolis took several deep breaths, then forced himself to stand. On his feet again, he stepped up to the creature and grabbed the hilt of his knife. He yanked it out, unwilling to be without some sort of commendable up-close weapon.  

The creature stopped struggling and removed its hands from its face, leaning back to howl once more. This time, however, the howl wavered at intervals. Like a cry for help. Similar howls filled the cool night air. The pitches conveyed a varying amount of distance, but many were too close for comfort.  

Cannopolis turned around and sprinted in the direction of the camp. He hadn’t gone but two steps when something hit him between the shoulder-blades. His breath caught in his throat and he fell face-first, stiff-legged, to the ground. He tried to get his arms beneath him, to roll over. None of his limbs responded to the desperate pleas within his mind.  

Had his spine been severed? 
No! I won’t die like this!
 Cannopolis willed the fingers on his right hand to move. One twitched. Then another. He clenched and unclenched his fist, then placed his hand beneath his right side, pushed, and rolled over. 

The ground trembled as five identical hulking creatures stepped into view. Fog rolled around them as if they were smoldering. Red eyes glowed near their ankles. 

Wolves. A dozen, all with red eyes and mangy hair.  

Two arms shot down from out of nowhere beside Cannopolis, surrounding him. Then the injured creature pulled into view, shooting in until its face was inches from his own. Its right eye was normal again, the left a mass of white goop. 

The wolves encircled him as the creature remained pressed above. One wolf growled and snapped at the air. Its jaws unhinged. A forked tongue slid out and licked Cannopolis’ hand.  

Undead wolves.              

Cannopolis still clutched the mini-Ashmore in his left hand. He whipped it up, jabbed it into the creature’s chest, and fired six shots in rapid succession. The creature’s snarl turned into a grimace. It inched ever closer, opened its jaw, then fell onto Cannopolis. 

The air rushed out of his lungs as the massive creature pressed down on him.  

***

Strajowskie stood outside the main tent. Its flaps whipped behind him as fog snaked through the encampment. Four of his bodyguards surrounded him, mini-Ashmores held ready. “Real soldiers don’t cower at the first sign of trouble,” he shouted for all to hear. “And we don’t leave our general alone on the battlefield!”

Campfires blared. Soldiers hunkered down. Dark circles surrounded their eyes, their facial hair scruffy and long. They averted their eyes as he glared at them. 

His jet had touched down on the outskirts of the encampment moments before. Still wearing the armor he’d used during his training session, he’d rushed to Cannopolis’ tent, anxious to hear if anything new had transpired. A lieutenant reported that some unknown creatures had broken the front line to pieces. Cannopolis had called for a retreat, and nobody had seen him since. 

I was proud to serve in the Army, but I’d be ashamed if I’d had to fight beside these fucking numbskulls.
 

Strajowskie snarled, threw his hands up, and stomped through the center of the camp. The soldiers moved away before him like a wave. He stopped ten paces from Cannopolis’ tent and mounted the nearest ATV. His bodyguards followed suit. Powered by anger, Strajowskie cranked the throttle and kicked it into gear, rushing off into the night. 

He sped forward, lights off. He wanted to locate Cannopolis as stealthily as possible in case the unknown assailants were still around. He twisted the throttle harder and clenched his jaw.  

Cannopolis was dead. The reports he’d received gave him the inkling that whatever they were up against was beyond human comprehension. Cannopolis couldn’t have survived a fight with such creatures.  

Time for tears would come later. Strajowskie hit the brakes on the ATV as he reached the crest of a small hill. He strained his ears. There it was: A blood-curdling howl filled with rage and fear and pain. Close proximity, within one hundred feet. He turned the machine off and whipped out his mini-Ashmore. His four bodyguards stopped their ATVs ten feet from his. They scrambled to keep up with him as he sprinted in the general direction of the sounds. 

After fifty feet, he stopped and held up his hand. His bodyguards halted. He heard footsteps, then a loud rush of air. Something large fell to the ground. Strajowskie bent down to one knee. He patted the lump at his right ankle, assured that he had ample weapon supplies on hand.  

He heard what sounded like licking, then low growls. They were still faint enough to be at least twenty feet away. The fog obstructed his vision. What was he about to rush into? He lowered himself to his belly and crawled ahead. He heard his bodyguards pull themselves on the ground behind him. At least he had back-up. 

Daley, agile and strong for his age of forty, was the head of his personal security. Miller, the youngest bodyguard, had only been on the job a few weeks, but Strajowskie trusted him. And Cusko and Simpleton were the veterans. If things were about to get as hairy as he thought they would, he would want no one else to watch his back. 

He stopped to gain his bearings. Several pairs of red eyes appeared before him. He heard the soft yet unmistakable 
thuck
 of Ashmore stakes plummeting into flesh at close range. Six shots. Then silence. Then a grunt. 

He exploded from the ground and sprinted, both hands steadying the mini-Ashmore. The scene unfolded before him. 

Twelve mangy, red-eyed wolves surrounded a heap of entangled body parts. Four giant beasts stood behind them. Strajowskie had never seen anything like them before. They looked to be formed of fragmented body parts, sewn together to make some creepy vampire-like monsters. Franken-vamps. One of the hulking beasts lay atop another body, which happened to be the focal point of every creature in the clearing. 

Strajowskie charged the heap of bodies, pulling the trigger of his mini-Ashmore with every step. Nine of the twelve wolves went down before any of the other gathered creatures noticed his presence. He stopped at the head of the hulking giant splayed on the ground. The three remaining wolves bared their fangs and leapt at him, eyes aglow, jaws parted. In a flurry of fur and sinew, they tackled him to the ground. One wolf clamped down on his left forearm and tugged. 

“Son of a bitch!” he shouted. Nigh-unbearable pain ripped through him. He dropped the mini-Ashmore on the ground beside him and reached over to grip the wolf’s neck, then ripped the wolf from his arm and tossed it toward the outskirts of the clearing. It hit the nearest hulking beast, and its body crumpled on impact.  

Yells arose, disorienting the final two wolves. Strajowskie’s bodyguards charged onto the scene. One wolf leapt at Miller, the rookie. 

Miller froze in place as the mangy ball of fur flew through the air. He was too ignorant of the ways of fighting and hadn’t worn a neck-brace. Before Strajowskie could call out a warning, the wolf ripped Miller’s throat out.