The Human-Undead War Trilogy (Book 1): Dark Intentions (27 page)

Jet engines blasted over the din of the nighttime Undead society. All heads turned to regard the Master’s private Harrier Jump Jet lifting off the top of Safehold Keep. It hung before the half moon, dark, wings like a bat, then sped off, flying west over the courtyard. 

“For your sake, you better hope they return before tomorrow evening,” Vince replied. The Undead assassin turned away and walked back to his thuggish friends.  

John turned away, chewing on his lip. 
Where are those two going at this hour?
 

They will be back! Fate calls for it!
 

John nodded, shoving several stumbling vampires out of his path. They grunted, recognized him, and slunk into the shadows. He decided against going to the nearest hidden entrance and instead opted to cut through the middle of the courtyard. His confidence was unwavering. He wished to relish in it. 

Do vampires feel like this all the time? Free, powerful, unstoppable?
 If so, he envied them. Sort of. 

He pushed his way through to the drawbridge of Safehold and rushed to his master’s chamber, ambling through the Statue Room, through the doors. A stockpile of confiscated weaponry lay beneath the Master’s bone throne. John had seen it there many times, when groveling or lying on the floor injured after his master’s rants. 

He plucked a large crossbow out of the pile and slid back through the doors, making his way to the hidden passageways. 

It didn’t hurt to help even out the odds. 

The voice struck up a conversation, old pals, once more running through the plan that would be Vince’s demise.  

Chapter 34

Ruby sank into the seat, holding her steaming cup of hot chocolate as if it were a nuclear warhead. She avoided Brian’s elbows as he click-clacked away on the jet’s portable laptop. She sipped the hot liquid and sighed. 

As soon as they had landed in Los Angeles, Brian had delivered as promised, locating an Italian restaurant near the Good Samaritan Hospital using only his nose. Bottega Louie. Their menu was chock-full of great dishes and the atmosphere, food, and service were better than expected. Brian had enjoyed a glass of wine with her, feigning interest in the food to keep the friendly staff from discovering what species he was. Afterward, he’d slurred his way through a scientific reason as to why the one glass of wine made him as inebriated as a lush downing a gallon of Vodka in five minutes. 

She’d laughed. She’d enjoyed the great company. She couldn’t have asked for more. 

Then they’d rushed to the Hospital and waited two hours before the staff released his medical documents to him (a call to the White House for identification verification had finally gotten them to pull the files). Since then, he’d been immersed in research, digging through the paperwork. He’d offered some grunts and harrumphs, a few muttered words she couldn’t discern. 

But all in all, he’d ignored her completely. 

“Damn,” he muttered, fingers tapping away. “I’ve searched the remaining hospitals in the United States. Nothing. Not even the Human Army stores it. I’ve got to go overseas.” 

“It’s that rare?”  

He nodded, eyes fixated on the pixilated screen. “The current population leaves me maybe four, five individuals in this world who can help me.” 

The jet hit a pocket of air. The turbulence ended as abruptly as it began. Ruby steadied her cup and closed her eyes. The clickity-clack of never-ending keystrokes lulled her into a false sense of comfort. 

Brian had proven that becoming a vampire hadn’t diminished his sense of chivalry. At the restaurant, he’d held the door, pulled out the chair. He’d given her his undivided attention. Then, at the hospital, it all stopped. She’d known how important his work was to him even prior to ever meeting him.  

Then why did dating an Undead scientist seem futile? There could be no true passion between them. No long-term relationship. Was she making a mistake by attempting to thwart his personal barriers? 

Was she making a mistake by falling in love with a vampire? 

***

Strajowskie paced outside the main encampment, atop the bluff that would be their fallback point. He breathed in the rich Midwestern air. Birds chirped in the trees as the evening sun blazed overhead.  

He could see it there, on the horizon: A smog-like appearance in the center of Junction City, where Jackson Street met Sixth Street. Visible trees were bare, charred, wilted. Buildings stood decrepit, abandoned. Nothing moved. 

Another day had passed since the Undead masses had holed themselves up in what was once known as Grandview Plaza. Strajowskie was surprised Hammers hadn’t yet pursued them further. The delay in attack, however, worked toward the new plan, which Strajowskie had decided was more logical and steady-headed. He could learn a lot from those few members who had persuaded him to prolong the inevitable destruction of the Undead. 

Would he still order a fall back to the bluff positions in six days? He was uncertain. If he could buy Brian more time, that would be in the best interest of everyone. Or so he’d been told.  

He shook his head. Brian was brilliant but not that brilliant. One week. What could the newly transformed Undead scientist possibly accomplish in so little time? 

Strajowskie could ignore notions of harmonic coexistence altogether. He could end the war on their turf, gain back the country. Hold the perimeters. Repopulate the world. Drive the blood-suckers back into secrecy. Rebuild the planet.

He could ignore buying Brian time and end it all. Now. 

Once again, the fate of the world was in his hands.  

He sighed and put his hands up, palms out. The breeze spoke to him as it had before he’d been sworn into office. Back then, he’d been attuned to the Earth, to the elements. A supreme consciousness that allowed him an understanding of the world surrounding him. A man was only as strong as his environment. If he knew nothing about it, the Earth itself could be his demise. And Strajowskie had gotten closer to Mother Nature again while leading in Cannopolis’ absence. The smells, the sounds, the softness or hardness of the ground around him—it was all coming back.  

Keith had been wise in suggesting those particular bluffs. Not only would they gain an advantage over the giant Undead beasts, but they could use the landscape as a shield. The plane had been filled back up with the cement mix, and a ready supply was stored in Salina. Everything—human, machine, land—would work together in harmony. 

The bluffs spoke to Strajowskie, stroking his ego. 
Yes, this is the place, the perfect place
. He would take the stand-still in stride, waiting out the Undead until they attacked. And then he would improvise. It mattered not what path he chose to take, or what path he wished to take to help Brian. He would make that decision based on the ferocity of the imminent clash. 

What mattered was bringing humanity back to its rightful place in the world, by any means necessary. 

***

Brian opened his eyes and sat up. He squinted at the window and stretched. It wasn’t morning yet. Sleep had evaded him until only an hour ago, yet he was rejuvenated. His work beckoned him to run to the lab, pull out a laptop, and sift through data to find what he sought. 

A pleasurable moan escaped Ruby, who lay beside him. The bed sheets hugged her curves. He caught a glimpse of her exposed legs. Ogling Ruby had become a pastime. Shame didn’t throttle him. He was obeying natural instincts of arousal, which had been amplified since he’d joined the Undead. 

He threw his legs over the side of the bed. His ankles popped in protest. He bent for his clothing and stood. He put on his shirt and kept a watchful eye on Ruby. Although his super-sensitive hearing caught the rustle of clothing and the whoosh of air as he slipped into his shoes, he cared not to awaken her from her slumber. She always looked so peaceful when she slept.  

He crossed the room, cringing as his footsteps echoed. The hidden entrance slid open. He stepped through, tapped the stone that closed the door, and headed for the laboratory. He strolled through the hidden hallways, shaking off the fog of sleep. He would need every ounce of mental muscle to find the blood he needed to bring the platelet to life.  

He crossed through a four-way intersection. A shadow approached from the right. Another approached from the left. 

And in front of Brian, the tall white-eyed vampire who’d attacked him almost two weeks prior appeared, face contorted by hatred. Brian took a tentative step back.  

The vampire’s white eyes crackled and flared, darkening the bags beneath them more so. He snarled like a caged, feral wolverine. “I owe you one.”  

He thrust his hands out before him. His forearm skin was mottled, pocketed like a twenty-year-old’s face from prepubescent acne. Brian recoiled, recalling the outcome of their first tangle.  

Hands grabbed him from both sides, pinning his arms. Without looking, he knew they were the other two goons—fat, goofy Rufus and the heavyset, white-streaked bearded one. 

The lanky leader stepped forth. His voice was low. “You see, lad, I don’t take kindly to being shown up like that. It was disrespectful, painful, and downright offensive.” 

Brian gulped. “You attacked me.” 

“Touché!” The fiery white-eyed vampire chuckled. “If I didn’t truly despise you for forever scarring me, I think we’d get along quite well. But as it stands, lad, there’s only one thing that will make this all better.” 

The heavy-set one whispered in his ear, “And it ain’t gonna be purty!” 

Flashbacks from the first attack popped into Brian’s mind. Disoriented, he ripped from their grasp and took to the air, calling on the winds of levitation. He slammed into the hallway ceiling, nearly losing his control over the winds.  

The skinny leader squatted and exploded from the floor in the same superhero stance from their first tussle. Brian avoided bony knuckles to the temple by scant millimeters. Suspended and floating backward, he kicked out. His foot connected. The white-eyed vampire grunted. Blood speckled Brian’s shoe. The vampire fell to the floor, shrieking and cursing.  

The muscular one reached up and grabbed Brian’s ankles. He tried to kick his way out of the grasp, to no avail. Rufus was before him then, bulbous chins flapping. He swung. Brian blocked the rapid-fire midair haymakers, unable to retreat or change position with his legs pinned. His winds kept him aloft, pulling away from the muscular one. Opposing forces threatened to rip him apart, but his new genetics kept the unbearable pain at ease. 

His feeble attempts to ward off Rufus’ blows couldn’t keep the bulbous Undead at bay for long, however. 

Suddenly, the leader floated up beside Brian, eyes crackling anew. No blood, nothing. Brian grimaced. Two fists pummeled his right oblique, then there was a sharp pang beneath his ribcage. He looked down and gasped. 

The leader’s fingers were buried in Brian’s body, to the knuckles. Blood gushed into his upward-facing palm. The leader jerked his fingers out and rotated his arm, palm down. Brian’s vision magnified against his will. Blood poured out of the leader’s hand.  

Brian’s vision magnified tenfold. He could see ripples on the blood’s surface as it plummeted. 

The blood landed on the ground, and a river of the darkest red filled his sight. 

***

His hand was cold and wet. It had been eons since he’d killed another vampire. The unfeeling, dead blood of the Undead did nothing to arouse him. But alas, the young lad had to die. Not only for causing him harm, but also for the humans such a kill would yield.  

The scientist stared past him, then to the floor. Then he hung there, stiff and taut, still weighted down by Gunther. Vincent waved his bloodied hand before the lad’s face. Not so much as an eye blink. “Let go,” he said.  

Gunther didn’t move. 

“Let go, fool.”  

Gunther sighed but did as instructed. Like a good dog.  

The lad remained frozen in place, hovering. Vincent scratched his head. Had he gone into such extreme shock that he was paralyzed? Was he just that damn powerful that Vincent couldn’t detect any signs of unlife, no draft from his levitation? 

He pulled his arm back, ready to plunge in elbow-deep and squeeze the lad’s dead heart. It was the most exciting way to kill a fellow vampire. The look of shock, jaw snapping in disbelief. The dust showering his skin.  

The lad suddenly tensed. His eyes crackled, azure. A ripple of energy radiated before the lad’s chest.  

Vincent cried out “Get down!” before the ripple erupted outward, slamming into him. His sight blurred. 

A stone wall on either side. Open air. More stone walls on either side. Collision. Ceiling. Wracking pain.  

Darkness.  

***

Brian watched the ripples push the leader through the intersection, down another full-length hallway, through another intersection. The lanky Undead landed face-up on the dirt floor. He remained there, unmoving.  

Excitement rippled through him as he realized his powers could be used as a weapon. Warmth had crept through his body, massaging, targeting his injured ribcage. A nearly invisible ripple had cascaded outward from him as his inner cry for help dissipated. And that was when he’d recognized the waves’ potential. 

Curious, he’d demanded his body to continue healing. His body innately refused and the ball of warmth grew in strength, nestled in his chest. Stubborn, impossible to contain. 

Then he’d screamed at the strange power to leave.  

And it had, with tremendous results. 

The two lackeys lay on the dirt floor beneath him, huddled together like lost children. Brian descended to the ground and stalked toward the whimpering buffoons. Thoughts of a peaceful resolution were null.  

He smiled, basking in the strange waves of energy coursing through his being. Nothing else mattered. Only the power. 

The fat one stood, mouth agape. Brian stepped to him. His consciousness screamed, blurting out something about morals and humanity.  

He brushed the annoying inner voice aside and gripped Rufus by the ears. Chins quivered like gelatin. Brian’s eyes crackled—
crackled!
—anew. Adrenaline surged through him unabashed. He giggled like a child. The power intoxicated him unlike any drug he’d ever encountered.  

He tilted his head, smiled at the fat face, and tugged. 

Rufus’ head came off with a sickening suction noise. Blood and gore splattered Brian’s feet. The torso burst into flames, leaving in its eruptive wake a pile of ashes. The shorn head imploded in his hands. The skin of his palms sizzled and he demanded that his body heal. 

The power obeyed without resistance. 

There was a gasp, a skitter of hands and feet trying to find traction on the floor. Brian whirled, balling up the healing energy. The muscular one sprinted down the hall in the opposite direction. Brian sped after him, engulfed by fury, rationality neglected.