The Human-Undead War Trilogy (Book 1): Dark Intentions (19 page)

A weapon might do the trick
. 

Brian hefted the scimitar out of its resting place and wheeled around. Barnaby was up, yanking a spear from a statue on the opposite side of the room. 

“I did not expect to progress to weaponry during our first sparring match, Koltz, but I will happily oblige.” 

Brian tossed the lofty scimitar from hand to hand. Barnaby twirled the spear like a baton before him, circling toward the center of the chamber, near the gaping hole in the floor. He shot in. Brian closed the gap. The spear head cut in fluidly to strike at Brian’s ribs, but he was ready for it. He whirled the scimitar in an arc before the strike and knocked the spear to the side. He tucked one knee up and jumped with his other foot, attempting to catch Barnaby off guard with a flying knee to the chin. 

But Barnaby twirled his weapon before him and checked the knee.  

As his knee cracked against the spear’s shaft, Brian brought the scimitar behind his head and chopped downward.  

Barnaby’s twitching arm thumped to the floor, black blood pooling beneath it.  

Chapter 24

Brian dropped the scimitar. “Holy shit! I didn’t mean to, I swear!” 

Barnaby chuckled. His spear clacked on the marble floor. He bent and picked up his arm. “I am sure you did not, Koltz. But you are forgetting one thing.”  

He placed the severed arm against his bloody shoulder. There was a formidable sucking sound. Then Barnaby stooped and grasped the spear with both hands again. 

“That’s impossible!”  

Barnaby whirled the spear at his right side. He then ducked into a crouch and slid the spear out of his hand, dragging the floor in a wide arc. It caught Brian’s heels and he splayed onto his back. The tip of the spear was at his throat. Barnaby stood above him, grinning. 

“Never underestimate your opponent. Impossible things happen when you deal with vampires.” 

Brian’s vision became hazy. Rage flooded through him. He batted the spear away and kicked out, tripping Barnaby. The Undead leader fell, growling, but was on his feet again before Brian could think of moving. 

Brian put his hands on the floor behind his head, elbows facing up. He kicked his legs straight up and followed through with the kip up, something he’d never been able to perform before. He then stood before Barnaby, seething. He blurred his vision and charged, careening into Barnaby’s midsection as the winds heeded his call. With the breeze accelerating him, he held tight to Barnaby and they slammed into a wall, against a large tapestry with Egyptian-like designs embroidered on it. 

While still in Brian’s grasp, Barnaby snarled, twisted his body around, and yanked on the tapestry. 

Sunlight spilled into the room from a previously hidden window, high up on the wall. Brian released Barnaby and stepped out of the sunlight. The rage boiling inside withered away until only a wave of fatigue remained to wash over him.  

“This training session is complete.” Barnaby held his hands out at his sides and levitated several inches from the ground. “I admire your unwillingness to kowtow. Your instinctive survival mode. But you are young, naïve in your new abilities. You may have bested me several times, but, overall, you would have failed. You underestimated your opponent’s powers and neglected your own limitations. Let that be today’s lesson.” 

Brian grinned and stepped into the sunlight. “I still have a few tricks up my sleeve too.” 

Barnaby’s eyes widened. He stepped back down to the floor.  

“What’s wrong?” Brian asked as Barnaby paced around him, hand to chin. “Did you underestimate your opponent as well?” 

***

“How could you have failed? He was an easy target!” 

Vince scowled. “Who are you, to belittle us for our failure? He’s still fresh blood. He will die easily enough the next time, I guarantee it.” 

John Ashmore crossed his arms over his chest. He didn’t wish to banter with the assassin, but he was beside himself with rage. He glanced past Vince. Gunther and Rufus held their fresh, new play-toys by their chains, still gagged and bound. He had given them six, yet they hadn’t held up to their end of the bargain. “Three is all you’ll get, then. I’ll keep the other three safe and sound until you complete this task.” 

Vince’s white eyes flared in the dark sub-basement of the Keep. “I urge you to avoid empty threats, Ashmore. Or you might just end up being our dessert tonight.” 

John gulped. Was he overstepping his boundaries? Was he to cave in to them as he did the Master? The voices bickered in his mind. No, he should not cave. These insolent slaves to the Master wouldn’t harm him. If anyone was spewing empty threats, it was Vince. John had every right to divvy out the prize as he saw fit.  

He acknowledged the burns on Vince’s hands. Three would do, if at least to give Vince some reprieve from his permanent scars. “Three. Next time, three. And if you succeed, three more,” he stated, stepping past Vince toward the goofy pair of the trio. 

Gunther stepped forward as he neared the captives, chest bulging, eyes spitting with that strange fire that seemingly only showed when a vampire was pissed off. “Ya ain’t gettin’ past me, pat’etic excuse for a bag o’ bones!” 

Vince appeared next to Gunther, placing a scarred hand on the brute’s shoulder. “Now, now. Ashmore’s right. We failed. A kind gesture of three humans is better than none.” 

Gunther eyed John but stepped aside. John smiled in passing, then rubbed his hands together before the six human prisoners. He chose the three largest, best-fed humans and led them back through the trio. 

“Now you’re just playing dirty, Ashmore.” 

John stalked up to Vince and laughed, slaves in tow. “Three. That was the only compromise. If you fail again, the deal’s off. The Master will have three extra captives, then, a small token of the Undead Army’s respect for such a gratuitous leader. And there will never be word of our deal.” 

Vince puffed out his bony chest. “If you think we will fail again, maybe you should do it yourself. But then, you aren’t made of such mettle, are you?” 

John paused. Maybe Vince was right. Maybe he was too cowardly to perform the task himself. 

No
, a voice whispered. 
You are not cowardly but rather too cunning to do the dirty deed yourself. Better to play the pawns than to be one yourself.
 

The three vampire assassins gathered around their human fodder and smacked their lips. John turned and led his three captives away from the salivating Undead. He followed a passageway so congested with cobwebs that he had to tread slowly, more-so while herding the blindfolded, gagged, and bound  slaves. He shoved them into an old storage closet. Nobody ever trekked all the way to the furthest corner of the castle. Nobody would hear their muffled, helpless pleas. He would feed them several meals a day. Bring them water. Keep them fat.  

He left the passageways he himself hadn’t ventured into for half a decade, and made his way back to the moat. The vampire assassins and their human meals were gone. 

He sat, dangling his feet above the bubbling blood. The voices in his head whispered, telling him he was doing the right thing, that the Master would soon enough see him for his true worth. Vengeance—however small, and to whomever it was directed—was on the cusp of completion. Vengeance would bring closure to the happy times and the unrecognizable innocent faces that often haunted his dreams. 

Unable to quiet the voices in his head, though, his memories of such happy times eluded him. 

“I thought I smelled human.” 

John started and almost fell into the churning blood below. A figure loomed above him, floating on the air scant inches from the ground. “M-Master!” 

The Master held up his hand. “Remain where you are. Your stench is overwhelming today. If I did not know better, I would believe you were housing humans down here.” 

John scrambled to his feet. He fell to his knees and bowed in servitude. “Master, it’s just me. No one else.” 

The Master glared. “Our newest family member and I have been training, and he is full of surprises. He has inherited more traits of mine than any others I have turned. So I want you to relay a message to Hammers.  

“Pull back the forces for the next four days. Then release the jackals an hour or two before sunset on the fifth night. And inform him the wraiths should follow. I want a full-fledged assault with our new creations. No weaponry, only the savagery of our army.” 

John gasped. “But Master, they will—” 

The Master gripped John’s throat. “Do not dare to question me, insolent fool! Do as I bid, or remain here forever as nothing more than a castle rodent!” 

John nodded. His eyes bulged and his lungs screamed for air. The Master released his grip. John fell onto the dusty bridge, gasping. 

“I want to know the results of this little experimental tactic once it is finished.” He stared upon John, who was trembling and rubbing his throat. “My, how the mighty have fallen,” the Master mumbled. Then he was gone. 

He’s insane! Couldn’t he see that his demand was irrational? The Master was condemning his most precious secret weapons by loosing the jackals upon the Human Army during daylight. 

Let him fall
! 

Let him make this grave mistake, that you might watch him succumb to defeat once and for all.
 

John nodded. 
The mighty haven’t fallen yet, but they will, in due time.
 

The voices agreed.  

Chapter 25

Keith placed the specimen back onto the dish with his left hand, then rapped his new right-hand pincer on the countertop. Sturdy. Strong. The pincers were sharpened to precise points. A steel rod had been drilled into his humerus and ran the length of his new forearm. A wiring system connected to his nerves ran through the core. His brain controlled the pincers as if they were a thumb and an index finger; one subconscious thought and the pincers moved. Thin titanium plates had been attached, filling his arm out to resemble a real one. Kevlar had been trimmed down to thin shells and fused to the titanium, and a thin layer of corrosion-free paint had been applied to resemble his natural skin color.  

It looked real. Except for the pincers.  

In his struggle to prove his worth, he’d defied the doctor’s suggestion to await a bionic, electronic, life-like hand. He regretted the decision. It was hindering him. Hell, the arm was now more of a weapon than anything. 

The flaps on the tent parted and sunlight spilled inside. Keith raised his left hand to block the light as a hulking figure pushed through the open flaps.  

“Gorilla and boa constrictor,” Keith said as Strajowskie stepped beside him. 

“Huh?” 

“Gorilla and boa constrictor. Their DNA were spliced to create these monsters.” 

“Don’t feed me random bullshit.” 

Keith chuckled. “I’m not feeding you bullshit, Mr. President.” He gripped the end of the beastly arm before him with his pincers, careful not to apply too much pressure lest he slice it in half. “The gorilla genes provide its basic features and functions: the facial features, the hirsute appearance, even down to the nervous system and other organs. But the muscular and integumentary systems are much like that of a boa constrictor.”  

He pointed as Strajowskie huddled closer. “See these two muscle groups? Each muscle acts of its own accord. The creatures weren’t elongating in the sense that they can defy the physical realm. They were simply contracting and relaxing their muscles. Their bodies are covered in scales, like snakes, with a thin layer of stretchable skin beneath. So the arms and legs—even the torso—can appear to elongate as the muscles contract or relax and the scales and skin stretch.” He gripped the other end of the specimen with his left hand and stretched the organ, then released. It shrank to normal size, like an accordion. 

“Interesting.” 

“It gets better. The bones closest to the joints are fused in place, but its major bones aren’t. They’re more like the sliding plates of a forming human skull. So the muscles, skin, and bone structure can twist, turn, and stretch beyond comprehension, with ease.” 

“Cannopolis shucked six arrows into this body. Regulars go down with one. What killed it?” 

“Sliding breastplate.” Keith motioned with his hands, sliding fingers together. “There’s more.” He pulled a microscope from the center of the countertop, then gestured for the president to be seated at the stool. “Have a look.” 

Strajowskie obliged and peered into the microscope. “What am I looking at?” 

“Their vampire virus. One we haven’t seen before.”  

Strajowskie leaned back on the stool and grimaced. “This isn’t good.”  

“Sure isn’t.” 

“Manera, the other scientists were still scratching their asses before you got here. It only took you a day to figure this mess out. I’m impressed.” 

Keith beamed. He was glad to be out of the hospital. He’d been beside himself with anxiety and impatience during recovery. He was thankful Strajowskie had only made him stay bed-ridden for a week, as promised. The doctors had suggested he remain in the hospital for another month to conduct further analyses and allow him to acclimate to his new body part, but he’d declined. Probably not a wise choice, but there was too much work to do. 

Strajowskie stood. “Their eyeballs are a weak spot. What else do we need to know?” 

“Its other organs are of no consequence. Jabbing the heart only works when the chest cavity is stretched. Wood obviously works. I’d be willing to bet beheading does too.” 

“I wouldn’t wager on that bet,” said a rumbling voice from outside the tent flap.  

Cannopolis was wheeled into the tent by a private. The Human Army general’s hair was disheveled, his face a mess of scabbed scratches that would soon turn to scar tissue. His torso to the collar of his neck—arms included—was casted. His left leg, from the knee to the hip, was also in a cast. His eyes sparkled, though, as the private grunted and pushed the wheelchair toward the staring duo. 

Strajowskie puffed out his chest. “You’re not supposed to be here. That was an order.” 

“You know I can’t honor that order, sir.” 

“How the hell did you even get here?” 

Cannopolis winked. “A certain private pilot.” 

“Goddamnit, Arthur.” 

“No worries, sir. I want to be kicking some vampire ass again, but I’m not an idiot.” 

“Then why are you here?” 

Cannopolis craned his neck around and nodded at the private, who took his leave. “Keith was given the opportunity to do something to help rather than sit on his ass at home. I figured I’d follow suit.”  

His wheelchair pitched forward. Both Strajowskie and Keith leapt to assist.  

Cannopolis shook his head as they approached and glanced at his right foot. “A remote’s built in. Pretty nifty technology.” He glanced back up, grinning. “I only made the private wheel me in to keep him from fucking off. Gotta keep these knuckleheads on their toes.” 

“You’re like a child sometimes,” Strajowskie said. 

“Maybe.” Cannopolis’ grin disappeared, his voice grave. “I came here to recount the events that happened that night. Something I’ve failed to mention yet. We aren’t dealing with our typical vampire prototype here. Beheading won’t work.” 

“Why do you think that?” 

“Because they can reattach their severed limbs.” 

Keith scrunched up his face. He’d never witnessed nor heard of such ability throughout his years of research. Brian had never mentioned it, either. Perhaps the general was high on copious pain medications and wasn’t thinking clearly? Or perhaps the creatures had done more damage in the attack than was initially suspected? 

“You flew all the way out here to report this in person when a simple phone call would’ve sufficed?” Strajowskie asked. 

“I had to show it to you myself. As I lay on the hospital bed, something tugged at me. Something I thought I’d heard or read regarding this same vampire talent. Back when you and Hammers and I ran together.” He maneuvered his wheelchair to the countertop and motioned with his head at the handle on the back. “Keith, could you retrieve the manila folder in the backpack please?” 

Keith grabbed the folder and set it onto the countertop. Strajowskie hovered next to the general. 

“Check it out.” 

Keith obliged. The top of the newspaper clipping showed the date of July 21, 2041. A long article was beneath it, with the headline 
Vampires Real!
 

“Everything turned to shit that day and this article went unnoticed. But I recall reading it in my barracks on Fort Riley while we were on R and R, hours before the SADAH missions began.” 

Keith perused the article. It was an intense interview with John Ashmore minutes after he burst forth from the cave, fleeing for his life. The stunned old man had recounted the tale in fragmented sentences. It was clear he was still in shock and some low-life reporter had seized the opportunity to get the story first. 

“Fifth paragraph from the bottom.” 

Keith read aloud, “
It took its arm. Horrible sucking noise. Reattached it to itself. Another ran at me…
” he trailed off, rereading the sentences in haste.  

“John Ashmore was clearly delusional at the time,” Strajowskie commented. 

Cannopolis shook his head. “He was in great shock, but he wasn’t delusional. This is legit.” 

“So what the hell does it have to do with these beasts?” 

“There it is, in black and white. An unusual trait for vampires but not unheard of.” 

Keith’s mind whirled. The same strange ability, nearly a decade later. One, a homely female. The other, some Frankenstein monster of a vampire. There was no connection. He let his eyes wander, and his mind did likewise until his sight rested upon the microscope.  

Holy shit.
 “The DNA!” 

Strajowskie and Cannopolis stared at him. 

“The DNA is the same.” He raced to the microscope. “The DNA. From the female that Ashmore killed. It’s the same as this beast.” 

“Impossible, Manera. She died then and there. And you don’t have a way to compare it anyway.” 

“Maybe they were related before their transformations?” Cannopolis inquired. 

Keith shook his head. “They can’t be. Human DNA is wiped from existence once the vampire virus takes hold.”  

He slouched. What was the connection? Both the beasts and the vampire killed seven years ago had the ability to reattach severed limbs. It was the virus, he was certain of it. But there was nothing connecting the two creatures to each other, and without that information, the puzzle couldn’t be completed. 

A commotion arose outside the tent, breaking Keith from his thoughts. Loud, panicked shouts split the silence of the encampment, followed by horrendous screams and guttural growls.  

“What the hell?” Strajowskie raced toward the entrance. He held the tent flaps open. The horizon was a pinkish haze. Two hours, and it would be nightfall. Strajowskie suddenly ducked. “Get down!” 

Keith froze. A figure flew through the air above the president and slammed into the nearly-immobile Cannopolis. The stricken general went down in a tangle, crying out in pain. Keith crept forward and glanced at the tent flaps. Strajowskie was gone. 

The figure atop Cannopolis jumped up, blocking the sunlight. It charged. Keith instinctively swung upward with his right arm to defend himself. His pincers sliced upward beneath the figure’s maw and remained embedded in flesh. Liquid flowed down his fake arm. He was glad he couldn’t feel it. He’d never been much for gore. 

The figure howled like a wolf, gripped Keith’s real arm, and hauled him off his feet. Keith dangled inches before its face. It was one of the beasts. Far uglier and more powerful than he’d given them credit. 

His pincers were jabbed into the flesh beneath its chin, stuck fast. He was attached to the creature.  

There was movement at the entrance. The creature spun, still gripping Keith by the arm. Keith peered back over his shoulder, his heart pounding. Strajowskie stood inside the tent flaps, a full Ashmore brought to bear, an arrow notched, finger on the trigger. 

“Shoot it!” Keith screamed. 

“I don’t have a shot.” 

“Just shoot it!” 

“You’re in the way!” 

Keith faced the creature and stared into its eyes. Smoldering hatred glared back, as if it sensed he was human and hated him for being so. A forked serpentine tongue snaked out and caressed his cheek. He shuddered. “Fucking shoot the goddamn thing!” he bellowed once more. 

He heard the soft click of the trigger and closed his eyes, waiting for the arrow to plummet into his body. Stiff arms wrapped around his legs and tugged down. A breeze feathered the top of Keith’s shaved head. An arrow ripped into the creature’s right eye and exploded out of the back of its skull. Gore splattered the tent behind it. 

The force of the shot propelled the creature backward. Arms held fast to Keith’s legs and his pincers ripped out of the creature, tearing a large hole in its lower jaw. He fell to the ground. Someone grunted. The creature fell in a thud a few feet away. Keith hopped up. Cannopolis was beneath him. He had somehow reached up with his casted limbs and pulled Keith to safety. 

“I owe you,” Keith said as the creature stirred. He shivered and stared at his pincers, still covered in fleshy material, dripping green and black liquids. 

“Help me back up. I’m like a fuckin’ turtle on its shell here.” 

Strajowskie cursed as he approached, then helped Keith maneuver Cannopolis back into the wheelchair. The president then side-stepped his battered comrades and strode up to the quivering, screaming creature. He placed the Ashmore against its chest and pulled the trigger several times, until the creature stopped flopping altogether. 

“These fuckers can withstand sunlight. Ever heard of that before?” 

Keith shrugged. “Not that I can recall. Where the hell did it come from?” 

“Outside. There are more.” 

“They’re openly attacking us? Are they insane?” Cannopolis asked. 

Strajowskie wiped sweat from his brow and hefted his Ashmore. “I’m about to find out.”