The Human-Undead War Trilogy (Book 1): Dark Intentions (22 page)

“And?” 

“Thought maybe it was some kind of code or something. He wants me to get a carrier with a cargo hold large enough to house about two tons of MegaKrete Instant-Dri mix. And he wants it dumped on the vampire front line at sundown today.” 

“Did he say why?” Cannopolis asked. 

“Something about fog and vapor. And he wants both of you to ride along when I drop it.” 

MegaKrete mix? The request seemed so odd that Keith was inclined to question if it had been Strajowskie’s order at all.  

But the thought vanished as soon as alarms wailed throughout the facility. Lester winced and covered his ears. Keith stalked past him to the door and looked back. He motioned for both men to remain still, withdrew his mini-crossbow, then stuck his head out and glanced up and down the hallway outside. Red lights illuminated the white walls and the sirens were more pronounced, louder. But it was empty. 

He passed through the doorway, turned left, and cross-stepped down the hallway, back against the wall. His heart pounded. Maybe he should return to his office? At least there it would be safer than being out in the open. He picked his feet up so his steps wouldn’t echo. Though the alarms were deafening, the absence of other noises within the facility made stealth difficult. 

He inched ever closer to the end of the hallway, where it spilled into the reception area. His breath came out in shallow puffs. In between siren wails, he heard muffled whispers. He held his Ashmore steady with his good hand and tensed. 

He inhaled, mustered up his courage, and pounced around the corner into the reception room. 

And smacked into a body that barred the way. 

Without meaning to, he fired his Ashmore point-blank into the intruder’s shoulder. There was a grunt, then a fist slammed into his chest. Keith flew backward and sprawled onto the floor in the hallway he’d just exited.  

Another figure emerged from the darkness behind the first one. Both stepped forward, bathed in the red glow of alarm strobes.  

Keith gasped. 

Brian and Ruby gasped in return. 

“That’s no way to greet an old friend,” Brian shouted above the sirens. He looked thinner yet more muscular.  

Was it the red hue from the sirens or did he look paler too?  

Keith jumped back to his feet and shouted, “You guys scared the shit outta me. You should’ve announced yourselves.” He motioned with his crossbow at the arrow jutting out of Brian’s shoulder. “Sorry,” was all he could think to say. He glanced around, still tense. “Stay behind me. There’s been another breach.” 

“No need to call in the big guns.” Brian reached over and pulled the arrow out of his shoulder without wincing. The small wound sealed over with new skin instantaneously.  

Keith stared, slack-jawed. 

Brian dropped the arrow to the floor and grimaced. “Can we please turn these alarms off before my ears start to bleed?” 

Chapter 28

“Are you out of your fucking mind?” 

Brian shifted on his feet, glad the general was incapacitated in the body cast. “I understand more about the Undead now. More than your—our—human research could ever show. I can use this in my studies. And I can finally create the platelet, whether it takes a day or a decade.” 

“You’ve fucking lost it,” Cannopolis grumbled, nodding. 

Ruby crossed her arms over her chest and glared at the general. If there was a stare and a stance that made Brian feel even smaller, she was the one who could pull it off. “I support his decision. You should too.” 

Brian willed his sight to infrared. Cannopolis was a steady red and yellow glow. Ruby was an intense multi-color wave. 

He wasn’t sure which one was more pissed off at that moment. 

“Wait until Strajowskie hears about this bullshit.” Cannopolis’ wheelchair whipped around. He headed for the door and exited into the hallway, mumbling obscenities. 

Ruby glanced at Brian, sighed loudly, and padded along after the upset general. 

Keith walked over to the island countertop in the center of his office. He’d remained silent since observing Brian loose the buried arrow from his flesh. Normally exuberant, clean-shaven, and presentable, he was now pale, haggard and worn. Brian checked his oldest friend’s emotions with his infrared powers. Keith’s innards fluctuated between red and purple, as though a part of him was dying inside with every passing second. 

“I always imagined us growing old, sitting on a porch, drinking beer and reminiscing.” Keith slumped onto a stool and buried his forehead in his good hand. “Wow.” 

A bitter twinge of regret flashed through Brian, but he urged it to disappear. “What happened to your arm?” 

“I followed your notes.”  

“From the red notebook?” 

Keith nodded and held up his fake arm. “It grew cold. Numb. Turned black. I flipped out and cut it off with a bone saw.” 

Brian shuddered. “I’m sorry, Keith. That shouldn’t have happened.” 

“Tell me about it.” 

Brian cleared his throat. “Though the outward appearance of my decision seems rash, you must trust that my intentions are good.” 

“Using your scientific expertise to help them win the war was intentional?” 

“What are you talking about? I haven’t done any experiments or anything since I left.” 

Keith stood and stepped forward, his mini-Ashmore clutched in his white-knuckled hand. “Right, like you didn’t have anything to do with creating those fucking beasts.”   

“I didn’t. I swear.” 

“On your mother’s grave?” 

Brian gulped. Funny things, human emotions. Even when dead they still affected him. “Yes.” 

Keith stared into Brian’s eyes, then tossed the Ashmore onto the counter and plopped back onto the stool. He then described in detail what manner of creature had been set upon the unsuspecting Human Army.  

“Such a creature is impossible,” Brian commented. 

“Should be. But it’s as real as you and me. You should see the way they stretch. It’s insane. They’ve even got new powers we’ve never seen before.” Keith leaned forward as if sharing a secret. “They can withstand sunlight and reattach limbs.” 

Coldness encompassed the pit of Brian’s stomach. He envisioned the lab at Safehold once more. The gorillas and snakes. Barnaby reattaching his arm after the scimitar incident. The shared ability to withstand sunlight. He shook his head, not wanting to believe it.  

“I know. Crazy,” Keith said, oblivious. “When Cannopolis arrived, he showed us an interview with John Ashmore moments after he killed the first vampire. In it, John claimed the vampire reattached an arm after it’d been cut off. Just like the beasts can do. Think there’s a connection?” 

A sharp, warm pang emanated from Brian’s stomach and shot to his throat. He didn’t find it strange that his dead body could create acid and corrosion. It fit. “No,” he said, more to himself than to Keith. “He’s not as bad as everyone thinks.” 

“What? Who?”              

“Barnaby.” Brian swallowed the rising bile down. “He has those powers too. I don’t think he’s involved though,” he added as Keith’s eyes widened. “There’s no connection to the vampire John Ashmore killed seven years ago.” 

“Maybe not, but that’s still one hell of a coincidence. The powers.” 

“He wouldn’t unleash hell behind my back,” Brian said, eyes burning. His voice must’ve been full of menace because the amusement slipped from Keith’s face. “He wouldn’t betray my trust, my confidence. Not like that.” 

The words of justification were hollow. His body quivered. Wind whipped against his skin. He stood before a sink and vomited. It was black and reeked of rotten eggs.  

“I didn’t realize you guys could do that,” Keith said, fake forearm shielding his nostrils from the offensive odor. 

Brian cranked on the faucet, rinsed out his mouth, and wiped his face off. He turned around, unsteady. “Neither did I.” 

“Look, I’m sorry. It doesn’t matter who created the beasts. Strajowskie has a plan to get rid of them. A crazy plan, but a plan nonetheless.” Keith rushed to the door as if anxious to get away. “I’m going to check on Cannopolis and make sure Ruby hasn’t affixed him permanently to his wheelchair.” 

He exited, leaving Brian was alone with his thoughts. Could he trust Barnaby? What were Barnaby’s intentions? The Undead patriarch had proven he was a passionate, caring creature. He’d revealed some of his past, illuminating an emotional being beneath the image humanity had projected onto him.  

But he’d also revealed—though vaguely—the experiments performed in the laboratory at Safehold. What if Barnaby had created the monsters on the battlefield? That’d imply he wanted war, not peace.  

Had he been lying to Brian all along? 

And what about his trysts, leaving Haven in pursuit of other business? What dark secrets was he harboring in that regard? 

Brian had to get back to Haven. Too many questions flitted around inside his skull, and he needed answers. He needed to find out whether his noble and misunderstood teacher was truly the barbaric monster lore proclaimed him to be.  

Keith re-entered the office with Ruby and Cannopolis in tow. Their lips were pressed tight together, like children who refused to share toys with each other.  

After an awkward silence, Keith asked, “So what do we do now?” 

Cannopolis grunted. “Fuck if I know. Strajowskie has some loony plan that probably won’t work. And Brian’s just as loony. Sawing off your damn arm might’ve been the sanest thing I’ve heard recently.” 

As much as he wanted to reconnect with his old friends, Brian didn’t have time to banter. “I came to get my notes.”  

Cannopolis maneuvered his wheelchair to block him. “Are you going to play the peacekeeper again? Is that why you wanted to be a vampire? Did you plan to infiltrate the enemy’s lines and show them the errors of their ways?” 

“I intend to do what I set out to do at the beginning. I just have fewer restrictions now. Nothing else has changed.”  

“That’s a bunch of bullshit, and you know it.” The general averted his gaze. “A lot has changed.” 

Brian cocked his head to the side. He could hear Cannopolis’ heartbeat, and it didn’t beat to the tune of anger. It sounded more like fear. 

Did the great impassive Army leader—who had killed vampires with his bare hands without remorse—have a soft spot for him? That’d explain why he’d always supported Brian’s research and experiments even in the midst of the President’s denials. 

Why hadn’t he noticed that before? 

He glanced at Keith and Cannopolis. Though it wasn’t the reunion he’d envisioned, he was thankful he’d returned. There was a division amongst them, yet he felt more at home than he had in months. They were a family not without its squabbles and differences. A quirky, stubborn, tight-knit group. 

He’d missed that. 

He smiled and placed his hand on Cannopolis’ shoulder. “I haven’t lost sight of my purpose.” He turned to Keith. “Sorry to cut this short, but we need to leave. I have work to reacquaint myself with. And lots of questions to ask.”  

Brian extended his hand. Keith pulled him in and they clapped each other’s backs heartily.  

When the quick embrace was finished, Keith reached into a drawer and handed the red notebook and several other folders to Brian. “All yours.” 

Brian gripped his life’s work. He would’ve sighed if he could still breathe. He wouldn’t have to start over, and that was a relief in itself. He walked toward the door, Ruby beside him. Then he turned and faced their friends one last time. 

“I’ll be in touch. Please keep me posted on the war and any anomalies that arise,” Brian said, meeting Keith’s gaze. “I’ll inform you of any answers I’m able to attain.” 

Keith nodded. “We’ll see each other again. Soon. Be safe.” 

With the farewells behind them, he and Ruby clasped hands, exited Keith’s office, and walked out of the URC of their own free will. 

Chapter 29

Strajowskie kicked dying soldiers out of his path and nearly lost his footing. The fight had been raging at full speed for six hours, and he hadn’t seen the colonel again. Had his message been delivered? What would Keith and Cannopolis think about his plan? He smiled, certain the general would refer to him as “loony.” 

He snapped back to reality, spun about, and fired into the eye of an Undead. The creature shrieked and yanked with both hands on the embedded arrow shaft. Strajowskie chuckled, put his hand on top of the Undead’s, and snapped the shaft in twain. He then whipped out a shuriken and jabbed the vampire’s other eye. White mush gushed out. It howled anew.  

With his boot, he shoved the Undead into a group of entwined combatants.  

“Down!” Strajowskie shouted above the din.  

Human soldiers dropped to the ground. He fired the Ashmore at all those who remained standing. A few dozen Undead burst into flames, peppering him with flecks of ash. 

His soldiers jumped back to their feet and formed two circles around him. They pushed forward, rejuvenated by his presence. A throng of Undead hammered into them from the front but were hacked down within seconds by machetes and stabbing wooden makeshift spears.  

Strajowskie looked to the horizon. A lone silhouette stood atop a bluff in the center of the battlefield.  

“There,” he shouted, pointing.  

The soldiers renewed their forward surge. Strajowskie beamed, a proud parent. His soldiers stayed in tight formations, not giving the Undead any ground. They were holding their line, even against the giant atrocities and new vaporizing vampires. 

But it wouldn’t last long. Mechanized warfare was one thing; hand-to-hand combat was another. His soldiers needed their rest. 

He perused the front line. The Human Army moved forward steadily, one giant mass. They were overrunning the vampires on their own turf. Exactly where he wanted them. The closer to the Undead encampment, the better. 

The soldiers surrounding him buckled. The remaining soldiers fanned out, dodging wild swings from one of the giant armored beasts, which gripped and wielded a tree trunk like a baseball bat. With his outer ring of defense obliterated in one fell swoop, Strajowskie ducked beneath the tree trunk and dove forward. He crawled on hands and knees until he was at the creature’s feet, then brought forth his machete and sliced at the beast’s ankles. The blade slid off without causing any damage. He peered closer. Its legs and feet were also armored. Strajowskie cursed and glanced up. 

The beast held the tree trunk in a pile-driver position, set to ram down atop Strajowskie’s skull. It would’ve been a sickening end. However, one brave soldier pushed Strajowskie out of the way in time to avoid having his head bowed in. The soldier rolled away unscathed and the tree rammed into the ground inches from Strajowskie’s bewildered face. The trunk buried itself into the ground, leaving the beast weaponless. 

Strajowskie jumped up and jabbed his machete into a hole in the beast’s armor, beneath its armpit. It recoiled and swung a massive hand at his face. He stepped back at the last possible moment, avoiding another set of facial scars. Several nearby soldiers loosed a rain of arrows onto the creature. One arrow found its home. The creature wailed one last time and slumped to the ground, beside the embedded tree trunk. 

Strajowskie composed himself and set off once again for the bluff at the center of the battlefield. He didn’t wish to make it there during this particular battle. He just wanted Hammers to see him approaching. A metaphor for the doom that rested upon the Undead Army General’s head.  

Though he would always have utmost respect for Hammers, Strajowskie knew the way to destroy an army was to kill off the leader. If he could dishearten Hammers, he would already have the advantage when the time came. 

As he knew it would. He had resigned himself to that fate when he’d rushed to Cannopolis’ aide and met Hammers on the battlefield. It wasn’t something he’d want to do, but it had to be done. The war had droned on too long. The end had to be near, or else humanity was damned. 

Soldiers once more formed two tight circles around him. As before, they charged headlong into the main body of the Undead Army, oblivious to their own fates.  

***

The small band zigzagged toward the bluff. Hammers magnified his vision and chuckled. Nearby wolves howled in response. 

Strajowskie, you predictable old fool. 
The human shield was a tactic best reserved for minor skirmishes, not elbow-to-elbow battles.
 
The ring of humans driving him toward his primary objective probably didn’t realize they were nothing more than fodder, either. Self-preservation had always been Strajowskie’s priority. His hypocritical mindset had been one reason Hammers had chosen to embrace the Undead as his family. 

Also, the old man had always favored the great Cannopolis. Cannopolis had always been better than Hammers. Smarter. Solider in mind and heart. Morally driven, perhaps the next in line to succeed the presidency should the time arise. Hammers had been the brawn, the oaf. Nothing more. 

But he was so much more than that now. Cannopolis was limited by the frailty of humanity, whereas Hammers held no realm in the living world anymore. Death was his bedmate. A decade of observation had made him keener, smarter. Better than his old brother-at-arms. 

Strajowskie would see that.  

He licked his fangs and glanced down the slope behind him. Hundreds of human soldiers lay on the grass, moaning, screaming, pleading. Their screams were met with salivating faces as the assigned jackals and mist wraiths watched over the prey. 

Most injured human soldiers were left to die and rot and bloat in the sun. Their living remains were the Undead’s spoils, a never-ending supply of food and recruits. The humans didn’t seem to understand they were helping fuel their own demise, but it came as no surprise to Hammers. 

Mortality had a way of sucking up potential wisdom in the brain. 

He turned his attention back to the action on the battlefield. The tight circle veered straight for the bluff, gaining ground. Hammers was impressed. Strajowskie was doing well in his reaffirmed role as an army commander. 

But his predictability played right into Hammers’ plans.  

***

Strajowskie ducked. Another of his protectors went airborne, batted away by an armored monster. Hundreds—perhaps a thousand or more—of the hulking monsters formed a barrier between his personal guard and the Undead’s probable campsite.  

Strajowskie came back up to full stature and bumped his nose into a refrigerator-like chest. He glimpsed a giant fist heading in his direction and dropped to the ground. Anticipating a follow-through stomp, he rolled to the right. Down came the expected leg. His teeth chattered as the ground trembled beneath him. 

He dropped his crossbow and latched onto the leg with his arms. Then he wriggled his lower body and wrapped his calves around its other leg. With all of his strength, he rolled away from the beast. 

It toppled. Strajowskie was caught beneath its legs. Had the beast not been top-heavy, he would’ve been crushed. But the momentum and girth of the creature lifted its ankles when it slammed into the grassy plains. Strajowskie’s breath raced out of his lungs. He released his grasp and fumbled into a standing position, gasping.  

He searched the ground and scooped up his Ashmore. The monster was on its hands and knees, scrambling to regain its footing. A gap appeared in the scrap armor between its shoulder-blades. Strajowskie aimed. The monster floundered, then stretched its arms in preparation to rise. Strajowskie smiled and pulled the trigger. 

The creature arched, screamed, then went limp. 

“Knock them down!” he shouted to his soldiers.  

A private beside him screamed and blood gushed out of her mouth. She spilled to the ground, clutching her stomach. A regular-looking vampire stepped forward, holding a bloody-tipped bayonet rifle. 

The vampire charged Strajowskie. His crossbow clanged against the rifle’s muzzle. He rotated his wrist to swing the weapon away, then front-kicked the vampire’s exposed left side. His foot passed through mist as the vampire transformed everything but its hands, which held the rifle firmly.  

It shifted back to solid form. Strajowskie leaned forward, following through with the momentum of his kick. He jabbed the tip of his notched arrow under the vampire’s chin. He fired, stepped back, aimed at the ambling vampire’s chest, and fired again. 

The creature turned to mist, again all but its hands. The second arrow blasted through it. The arrow jutting out of its jugular fell to the grass soundlessly. The creature reformed. 

It gripped the butt of the bayonet like a tennis racket and swung at the stunned president. He blocked with his tender left forearm. The wooden butt snapped in half. He screamed, shut his eyes to ward off the pain, and opened them anew.  

Adrenaline surged through him. He brought his right arm out parallel to the ground, dipped into a squat, shot forward like a shot-putter, and clothes-lined the vampire. It tumbled to the ground. Strajowskie rolled forward into a somersault and flopped onto it.  

It turned to mist, and barely-visible droplets encompassed him. Goosebumps blossomed on his exposed skin. He scrambled to his feet, gripped the crossbow with both hands, and waited. 

The vampire’s left arm solidified, braced against the ground, and pushed off. It jetted forth, then clutched Strajowskie’s neck. Claws pinched his esophagus through the skin. 

Hoping his aim was steadfast, he brought the Ashmore up at an angle by his side and fired four times.  

The arrows passed through the misty vampire and rocketed toward the sky. The vampire snickered, solidified in entirety, and dug its claws into the president’s skin.  

The four arrows descended as the first trickle of blood rolled down Strajowskie’s neck. They burrowed deep into the vampire’s skull with mucky 
thuck
s. It released its hold.  

Strajowskie shoved it away and reached for a shuriken. But there were no more in his waistband. He cursed and brought the Ashmore out before him. The mist vampire knocked it aside. It sidestepped his feeble forward rush and tripped him. He flew to the ground. Black dots swirled before his vision. Dizzy and gasping, he glimpsed an object at the mist vampire’s feet. 

Strajowskie reached out and grabbed the item. He hopped to his feet and stabbed. The jagged wooden bayonet butt slid through the vampire’s chest.  

Unlike most vampires he’d ever killed, it smiled at him before bursting into ash. 

***

Hammers sneered. Strajowskie had bested two of his most unique soldiers in minutes. He hadn’t gotten older with age. 

He reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a bone hanging from a string of twine. He brought the self-carved whistle to his lips. He had his orders. Keep the humans busy for several weeks. Buy Barnaby some time. 

Too easy. 

He blew the silent whistle three times, turned to the east, and strolled down the bluff. 

***

Strajowskie reached the summit of the bluff, limping, urging his soldiers to push ahead. They did so without argument, heaving the giant beasts and regular-looking vampires aside. Strajowskie glanced up the grassy slope. The ominous shadow disappeared from view. He heard footsteps and turned, expecting a vampire to have broken through the ring behind him.  

But nothing had gotten through the barrier. Instead, the ring had tightened around him. He peered over a soldier’s shoulder.  

Halfway across the open expanse of the western plains, every vampire from the battlefield rushed toward them.  

Strajowskie glanced at several nearby fallen armored beasts, pushed his way through the soldiers, then gripped his machete and loomed over one still body. He raised the machete above his head and brought it down, hacking through the thick cord that held the makeshift body armor together. He bent low, maneuvered the body, and stole the armor. 

He wheeled about and held up the spoils. “Wall formation! It’s the only defense we have!” 

His protectors jumped into action. Within minutes, they cleaned every carcass in the vicinity and rushed into formation, no weapons at hand. The shorter soldiers dropped to their knees and held their shields before them. The taller ones stood behind them, holding their shields above their kneeling comrades, creating a metallic barrier. Strajowskie stood amongst the tallest, bearing his own impromptu shield. 

Footfalls mingled together. The ground shook as if angered. The clamor became deafening, and then the first of the racing vampires struck their shields. Strajowskie gritted his teeth against the strain and risked a glance to his left.  

Bodies raced past, all eyes to the east. The plowing bodies bleated into their defensive wall, driving it back millimeter by millimeter. Strajowskie’s right hamstring quivered. He dug the heel of his foot into the plain, meeting resistance. The soil was plush yet firm. Perhaps they could hold on until the swarm passed. 

But several minutes later, his soldiers gave out. Strajowskie faltered in the ensuing tangle of bodies, then fell beneath the masses. He held his shield close, covering himself from ribs to face. Most bodies that trampled onto him were lithe, hardly pressing down when lifting off to pounce anew. Some, however, bounded onto him as if he were a rock. They perched, crushing him momentarily, then leapt away.