The Human-Undead War Trilogy (Book 1): Dark Intentions (30 page)

He planted his free hand beneath himself and hopped up. He brought his machete forward in time to deflect a blow from the quick-striking vampire looming above him. The deflection worked in his favor: The blade sliced the vampire’s arm off at the elbow. Speckles of dark blood splattered his face. The quick-striking vampire jumped high, good arm back, claws glinting in the moonlight. Strajowskie didn’t have time to parry. Instead, he twirled on his feet, side-stepping the attack. Again, one of the crawlers held his legs fast. He flew to the ground once more, this time losing his grip on the machete. He rolled over. 

Vampires lined up, ready to pounce. Strajowskie propped himself up on his elbows, trying to kick the half-vampire from his feet.  

The one-armed vampire lunged. At the same time, the half-vampire on his legs pushed off with its arms, airborne as well. Strajowskie jutted his chin out in defiance, knowing death was imminent.  

The one-armed vampire’s fangs were inches from his face. Suddenly, blood spurted out of its mouth and splattered across his cheeks. The tip of a crude pike jutted out of its open mouth, heading for the spot between Strajowskie’s eyebrows. He slid off of his elbows, eyes crossed, the tip of the pike his only focal point. 

The back of his head hit the ground. The sharp point kept coming. He sucked in his last breath. 

The tip rested gently between his eyebrows. There was a sickening suction noise as the tip of the pike retracted back through the one-armed vampire. One-and-a-half bodies plopped onto Strajowskie’s waist and burst into ash. He exhaled as the wielder of the wooden pike stepped into view. 

Drake offered a hand. Strajowskie obliged. He reached down and scooped up the hilt of his machete as more Undead surrounded the two of them. Back-to-back, they prepared to fight off the vampires. 

Loud, guttural roars broke over the din of the battle. Kevlar-and-pike-bearing soldiers smashed through the Undead ring to stand beside their commanders. One of the soldiers threw Drake a shield. They then backed up until Strajowskie was in the center of them.  

Drake snatched Strajowskie by the back of the neck and shoved down, shouting, “Sorry, Mr. President! Heads up!”  

They slid their shields together and squatted. Strajowskie knelt in the center of the reformed metallic egg. Objects pounded on the Kevlar frantically.  

There was a lull in the attack. Drake shouted, “Up!”  

The soldiers slid their shields apart. Out they stepped, pikes resting on the ground at their feet.  

“Hold!”  

They stood as silent statues. Vampires inched ever closer.  

When it seemed they’d be overwhelmed, Drake shouted, “Down!”  

The soldiers squatted, grabbed their pikes and held them aloft, and then slid the shields together, holes everywhere a pike shaft poked through. Shrieks filled the air. Muffled explosions echoed inside their barrier. Ash filtered into the unsealed sections of the shields.  

A gangling red-headed private rested his forehead against his shield and sighed. There was a loud ping. The entire structure shook, and then the red-haired private’s head exploded. Brian matter and blood pelted Strajowskie. A huge indentation appeared where the private’s forehead had been resting. 

“Son of a bitch,” Strajowskie mumbled, wiping warm tissue from his face.  

Suddenly, one of the exposed pikes was jerked out of their protective barrier. The private holding it crashed against his own shield. The jolt caused him to sway. His shield clattered to the ground. Six webbed fingers grabbed the semi-conscious private by the neck and dragged him through the newly created gap. Strajowskie watched a giant beast bite into the private’s jugular. Blood sprayed in torrents. 

The soldiers burst into action then. Pikes and shields fell. They’d witnessed enough deaths of their own men. Their contrived sanctuary forgotten, the soldiers billowed out, hacking away without regard for personal safety. 

Strajowskie gripped his machete, his strength still ebbing and waning in waves. He let out a hearty roar and joined in the fray, knowing it would be one of the longest nights of his life. 

Chapter 37

The Undead symbol shone like a beacon on his barrel-like chest. Crude forearm and shin guards were buckled tight about his limbs. He didn’t want a shield, or anything strapped to his torso. Additional armor would hinder him. 

He was that damned good, he wouldn’t need any of it anyway. 

Hammers clicked his sharpened nails together. The idea of slaughtering helpless humans on the battlefield thrilled him. Barnaby had ordered him to remain unseen until he’d heard word of the escapades in Egypt. Moments ago, he’d received news that Barnaby would be back in Haven by the end of the week. Tonight, he would finally get to fight with his brethren for the first time in months. 

 He hoped he’d get the chance to dig his claws into his former commander. It was sunset on the third day of the newest battle, and the mighty Strajowskie was alive and well. Though he’d been overwhelmed at times, the old man continued to wreak havoc on some of his best Undead minions. Hammers needed to put a stop to that. 

Regardless, he was content. His plan was going well. As ordered, his soldiers had fallen back at dawn on the first day. They’d given the humans all sunlit hours to recuperate. Then they renewed their attack. Same with the following night. They’d given the humans hope, let them sleep off their injuries and exhaustion.  

But he was about to crush that hope, and he’d enjoy every second of it. He grinned and peered to the west. 

Tonight, glorious battle. 

Tomorrow, the decimation of the Human Army would commence.  

***

Cannopolis’ wheelchair whirred as he entered the tent. “They’re gathering near the old Kite’s restaurant. Maybe five minutes.” 

Strajowskie nodded. “Good. Let them come.”  

“They’ve been handing our asses to us,” Cannopolis said, voice quiet. “I think it’s almost time to issue the retreat.” 

Strajowskie raised an eyebrow, intrigued by Cannopolis’ stern and somber countenance. He hadn’t been as grumpy since being placed back into some form of command. His arms didn’t appear to have been soaked in water for years anymore, either. The skin was healing, muscles bulging anew.  

He looked at the cuts on his own arms and grimaced. He’d stayed off the battlefield the night prior, due to a medic’s orders. It hadn’t been pleasant, yet the break from the battle was refreshing. He couldn’t help but wonder: Was he getting too old for this shit? Had he grown soft in the comfort of the White House? 

Would he envy Cannopolis when he gave full command back over to him? 

“You and Manera urged me to stretch this out.” He finished strapping lightweight Kevlar armor to his chest. As an added precaution, and after witnessing the ferocious gnashing of many a jugular, he slipped his leather neck-brace on. “I intend to uphold my end.” 

“It’s been five days.” 

“We agreed to a week.” 

“Yeah, but we didn’t expect them to bring every swinging fang to the fight.” The general sighed through his nostrils. “It’s taking its toll on us.” 

Strajowskie agreed, but he wouldn’t admit it aloud. The battle had become chaotic, yet they were on the cusp of victory. He could feel it. 

“Tonight, we sink our feet in and ride it out,” he said, clapping Cannopolis on the shoulder. “Tomorrow, the moment the front line is pushed back, I’ll give the orders. You have my word.” 

He walked to the exit and pushed the tent flaps open, stepping outside. The evening air was still fresh, not choked off by the death that plagued the eastern half of the country. The encampment bustled with activity, the sun sinking at their backs. A pinkish-with-purple-pinstripes hue glazed the sky. The Midwest would be missed, when he was back in California, sitting in his dark office. California was beautiful by its own rights, but it could never compare to the sweeping hills and plains. 

He frowned, thinking about the battle at hand. If the odds continued in the Undead’s favor, how long would the beautiful center of the country remain so? Would it, too, be wrought with death and destruction? Would it be lost, like New York, Pennsylvania, the Great Lakes? 

He held his head high. It was his solemn duty to ensure humanity marched forward. He would do everything he could to protect his country and Her people. 

The Undead would not lay claim to anymore of the Earth. 

He walked past rambling soldiers until he reached the outskirts of the camp, yards away from the hidden trench and covered cannon. Drake and several privates approached him. 

“Mr. President!” Drake shouted in greeting, saluting. He didn’t wait for Strajowskie to return the salute. “You would’ve been impressed with our team yesterday. Kept the vamps at bay, sir.” 

“Is that so?” 

Drake hefted a pole onto his shoulder. It resembled a spear with a metallic hinged arm running from the top of the haft to the center of a ragged pike that had been shoved onto it. Like a giant homemade tattoo gun without an engine. 

He wedged the butt of the spear against the ground, between his feet. With one hand, he slid the haft and the pike jutted upward, the arm moving it. He slid the haft back down and the pike retracted. “Easier to use within the small confines of our formation, sir. Keeps our shields closer together as well.” 

Strajowskie nodded. “Ingenuity at its finest.” He assessed Drake’s Kevlar-clad squad. All young, though hardened by war. He quirked an eyebrow. “New recruits?” 

“The rowdiest bunch yet, Mr. President. Calling themselves the Kevlar Dozen.” 

There was a sudden raucous ahead, near the gas station on Sixth Street. Drake and the Kevlar Dozen turned as shouts rang out. Strajowskie stepped past them all, hustling to see what the commotion was. He neared a large group of soldiers, who all pointed to the eastern horizon. The purple hue was gone, replaced with the dull grey of dusk. Hushed whispers stopped as he shoved his way to the front of the group. He followed the pointed fingers and his heart leapt. 

The Undead were in formation, trudging down the center of Sixth Street. Banners with Undead insignia billowed high above the first wave of vampires, held aloft by several of the ugly giant beasts. The ranks disappeared into the smog on the other side of Jackson Street about half a mile away. 

At the center of the first line, surrounded by dozens of the giant beasts, marched an Undead of unmistakable stature.  

“I’ll be damned,” Strajowskie muttered. Hammers was in full battle regalia, with armor mounted to his arms and legs. He bit his lip. Months of hiding behind his own soldiers, and suddenly the Undead general was leading his men into battle? He didn’t like what that implied. 

He could feel the machete sheathed against his leg. He patted the store of shuriken in his waistband and the ever-familiar bump that betrayed his mini-crossbow. He was shoulder-to-shoulder on the front line, Drake beside him, the Kevlar Dozen behind them. Everyone was in place with pikes, machetes, and crossbows at the ready. 

The Undead lines halted across from them, ten yards away. The vampires stood frozen. Only the hunger glistening in their eyes gave them away to be more than silent sentinels. Hammers was dead-center, unflinching. 

The president didn’t nod or show any respect to the bulky Undead general. Hammers had promised there would be no quarter given or taken when next they met face-to-face.  

Undead banners dipped. 

***

The humans dove in headlong, bellowing murderous cries. Opposing front lines clashed together in an eruptive roar, claws clanking against metal. Hammers attempted to remain at the front of the line, but his minions were hungry. They shouldered their way past with little or no regard for who he was. Not that it mattered. 

He grinned. The call of battle had been beckoning him for far too long. Though he and Barnaby rarely saw eye-to-eye, he still obeyed orders. Staying cooped up in the encampment had brought forth a yearning for bloodshed he’d never experienced. 

He’d have to thank Barnaby when next they met. 

He pushed through his lines and strode to the nearest group of human soldiers. They fought against his brethren like stoic warriors should. He stood by as half a dozen of his soldiers were reduced to ash and body parts. The humans responsible then sighted him. Their eyes widened and their machetes stopped hacking away. 

Before they could scream, he slashed through each of their throats. Warm blood enticed him. His nostrils flared, the scent overwhelming. Instincts kicked into overdrive. His powers pulsated within. He drank up the power and sent small waves rippling away. He wanted the humans to cower, to feel the waves as they sloshed against them in the heat of the battle. 

He roared in ecstasy. His jackal bodyguards grouped around him. Humans stumbled within reach and died before they could wield their weapons against him. He and his jackals slashed and gashed their way through any who opposed them, and he relished in the warmth that sprayed upon him in torrents. Bodies piled up beneath his feet.  

Within a minute of the commencement of the night’s battle, Hammers had mutilated and killed twenty humans.  

Slickened by blood, senses overhauled by the inner bloodlust, he set forth to unleash his fury upon the Human Army. He hadn’t caught sight of Strajowskie, and so he continued to rip through the human fodder, forcing the Undead front line to move with him or remain behind.  

With their general hacking through human ranks with reckless abandon, the Undead howled in delight and surged forth, eyes flaring. 

***

“Fuck!” Strajowskie screeched. Another dozen vampires surrounded him. He’d thought the first night had been ferocious. He’d been mistaken. The Undead attacked so viciously he was certain the soldiers hidden in the ravine were already stumbling from their sanctuaries to fill in the dwindling front line.  

The banners had dipped to signal the start of the battle only minutes prior. 

With Hammers once again lost in the sea of soldiers, Strajowskie had turned his attention to the foes at hand. He twirled and parried, slashed and stabbed, dancing in and out of the milling soldiers—human and Undead alike—without hesitation. Claws and fangs raked at him. With calculated slices of his machete, ash erupted all around. Dismembered arms pelted his body. Another dozen stepped forth; another round of smooth maneuvers; another cloud of ash burst in the air. 

He parried the next group of endless attackers, keeping the Undead at bay. An anguished cry broke his concentration. Drake. Strajowskie’s heart beat quicker than the strikes directed at him, resounding in his head. He felt the steady rhythm and immersed himself in the beat. 
Step, step, slash, parry, step, step, stab.
 A wild-haired vampire jumped above the other Undead and landed before him, knocking him off-beat. 

A knee connected with Strajowskie’s chin and he was dazed. Vampires lunged at him. He sliced through reaching arms, heard the angered growls of the fiendish monsters, and still was unable to collect himself enough to locate Drake. Ash billowed around him, choking his lungs, marring his sight. Still he pressed forward, knocking faces with his elbows, slicing with his machete when he could maneuver it. 

And then Drake and the Kevlar Dozen were beside him. Strajowskie stole a glance at the colonel and reeled. Drake’s right eye was gouged. There was no way an eyeball still resided in the socket. Undeterred, the colonel slashed away with his own machete, the hilt of which was covered in blood. With a roar, Strajowskie found his rhythm again and danced anew. 

Suddenly, the vampires before them erupted into ash as arrows rained down from on high. The Kevlar Dozen brought their shields above their heads to block any stray shafts. Renewed, Strajowskie bowled over two gangling Undead and prepared to dispose of them, but Drake stepped forward, hefted one of the mechanical pikes, and skewered them while they flopped on the ground. 

Together, they surged forward. The Kevlar Dozen abandoned their usual tactics then, relying on their shields to block blindsides. The majority used machetes and several wielded the rigged pikes like bo staffs. With the discipline of ninjas, they parried fists and delivered deathblows with ease. Within seconds, they were lost in the chaos, fighting their own battles. 

Strajowskie had no time to dawdle at the privates and their expert moves, impressed as he was. Hairy arms elongated, and then giants appeared all around him. He was knocked in the forehead and the stomach simultaneously. He doubled over, elbows on his knees. Fists hammered down upon his back. His thighs bulged from the battering forces, straining to keep him upright. He almost toppled, but Drake and the Kevlar Dozen bounded into view.  

The Dozen surrounded him, backs turned toward him. Then they crunched him in the middle of them and brought up their shields. Loud pings echoed and small dents formed with each blow. He hoped none of these privates rested their head against their shield. He didn’t want brain oozing down his nose again.  

The shields swung out and Strajowskie regained his footing. Saved once more by Drake and his brave elite, he decided to repay in kind.  

“Get down!” he said, pushing on their backs. “Get down!”  

They obeyed his command. Ash still choked the air. He whipped out the wooden shuriken and slung them blindly. Howls roared all around. Specks of blood spattered against the Dozen’s faces, but they didn’t blink or grimace. With steel-like expressions, they stabbed and sliced at the calves and feet of the giant beasts surrounding them. None of the beasts burst into ash. Cuts and gapes sealed as soon as they were made.