The Human-Undead War Trilogy (Book 1): Dark Intentions (31 page)

Strajowskie cursed himself. 
Why do I always waste my shuriken at such inopportune times?
 

A cool breeze nudged through the battling parties. The ash cleared. The beasts’ faces came into view. Strajowskie stifled a laugh and smashed his fist into the eye socket of the nearest beast. The shuriken embedded in its eye shredded his knuckles, yet he felt no pain. A loud crunching noise reverberated. The beast howled, arms flailing. The Kevlar Dozen followed suit, smashing embedded shuriken into eyeballs, or nose bridges, or cheeks, or wherever they had happened to sink. 

Strajowskie stepped out of the middle of the Dozen and hacked away with his machete. He breathed the ash in as it wafted. It no longer choked his lungs, which were on fire with exertion as it was. Wrapped up in the assault, the glee, he didn’t notice time slip away. He hacked and slashed, shot arrows at close range, nearly had his head ripped off by the Kevlar shields once more, got knocked unconscious twice by giant beasts, suffered a horrific-looking wound to his right thigh (his body still numb, it didn’t feel as bad as it looked), and watched his own men and women die at his feet.  

He stole glances up and down the lines from time to time. Claws dug into anguished yet determined faces; ash erupted with every beat of his heart; blood squirted from all angles; fangs buried into necks and wrists and throats. Not once did he catch sight of Hammers, though he knew the Undead general was nearby. 

Not once did he look up to the heavens and notice the bright twinkling stars wane to make way for sunrise. 

Not once did he listen well enough to catch the roaring engines of the biplane as it flew overhead, crossing from the center of Junction City toward the Human encampment. 

***

Keith gripped an emergency handle with his pincers and wrapped his good arm around a pole behind the co-pilot’s seat. 

“Jesus Christ, did we really have no other choice but here?” Lester muttered. Sweat glistened on his pale forehead. 

Keith shrugged, but turbulence made it look more like a spastic, involuntary action. “They’ve got to know!” he shouted over the sputtering engines. 

“Yeah, yeah.” Lester’s forearms bulged as he strained to flatten their quick descent.  

Keith was shaken to his core as tires screeched against broken asphalt. He lost his grip with the pincers but maintained a hold on the pole. His feet lifted off the floor, crashed back down. His soles ached. Another rattling of the plane. His grip faltered and he was splayed against the floor. He slid toward the tail of the plane and his head rang against the gaylord which housed the cement mix. 

The shaking stopped, but it was still so bumpy his teeth chattered. He rolled onto his stomach and crawled his way up the interior. Then he pulled himself up to stand once again behind the co-pilot’s seat. 

Through the windshield, jagged limestone layers of a bluff approached. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” Lester let go of the yoke with one hand and performed the movements of the Catholic sign of the cross, uttering a prayer that Keith couldn’t hear over the deafening roar of his own heart.  

The bluff wall inched ever closer. Keith closed his eyes and braced for impact.  

The nose of the plane shuddered. A sound like that of a blacksmith’s hammer ringing against an anvil echoed inside the cabin. Lester then uttered more epithets, drowning out the clunking sound of the propeller biting into limestone. 

The plane rocked back violently. The clunking stopped. Hisses of steam rent the welcomed silence, along with a multitude of blaring alarms. Keith reopened his eyes. His shoulders sagged in relief. His legs almost buckled. He needed air. He limped past the gaylord and over to the cargo exit and pulled the handle. The hatch opened and he scrambled down the modified ramp. The succulent smell of alfalfa hit him like a train. 

“Are you fucking nuts, Manera?” Cannopolis wheeled into view, rolling down the slope that hid the trench and the cannon. He screeched to a halt as Keith staggered away from the smoking plane. 

“We must—Hundreds—Thousands!” Keith uttered between gasps. A full-fledged anxiety attack was coming on. His head rang, adding to his increasing panic. 

Lester wobbled out and stood next to Keith, a pair of binoculars gripped in his shaking hands.  

Cannopolis regarded both of them as if they belonged in an insane asylum. “You almost died, you fucking idiots,” he scolded. He glanced past them. “And the plane is in shambles. Do you realize how long that fucker will take to repair?” 

Lester sucked in a sharp breath. “Fuck the plane! Here!” He shoved the binoculars into Cannopolis’ open hands and then pointed back up the hill.  

“Fuckin’ lunatics,” Cannopolis muttered. His wheelchair turned around with precision, asphalt crunching beneath the wheels.  

We don’t have time!
 Keith screamed in his head. Unable to speak, he ran after Cannopolis with a fresh surge of adrenaline. Lester’s footsteps soon echoed behind him. He caught up to Cannopolis and gripped the wheelchair handles. Using every ounce of strength he could muster, he propelled the general up the hill. 

“Hey! Hey now!” Cannopolis protested.               

“Shut up!” Keith stretched his legs further with every step. 

“You did not just tell me to—” 

Keith halted before the covered trench and pointed over Cannopolis’ shoulder. 

The general curled his lip in disgust and looked down. After several seconds, he gasped.  

“We flew as fast as we could.” 

The general regarded him with wide eyes. “Fall back!” Cannopolis shouted as dark figures filtered around them, rushing headlong toward the battlefield. The general wheeled around the trench and sped down the slope. “Retreat!” 

***

Strajowskie pushed the limp Undead beast off of himself and stood, swinging his machete wildly. The vampires surrounding him scattered. He swooned to one knee and glanced around, ears ringing.  

The Undead were fleeing. He snorted and bloody snot flew out of his nostrils. The ringing in his ears died. He heard shouting. From everywhere. The words were indistinct, muffled. He whirled around. His soldiers ran away from the battlefield as well. 

“What th—What the fuck?” he stuttered, swaying. He wheeled back again. The Undead fled in lines, with gaps between each one. They’d never gone into formation during battle. Why the hell were they filtering through the empty streets seamlessly? 

Then Drake was beside him, shouting and pointing to the horizon. Strajowskie couldn’t understand him but followed the pointed finger. He shook his head, raised both hands to signal that he’d already seen the strange retreat. Drake gripped his shoulders and shook him, mouthing—shouting—something. Strajowskie strained to hear as the words floated in and out. 

“Air-(
something
)-umming!—(
something
)—issued a retreat, sir!” 

He shook his head and gestured to the pink-orange clouds above them. “I didn’t issue a retreat! It’s daylight! It’s over for now!” 

Drake looked to the horizon again, jabbing his finger in the air. 

He obliged the colonel, watched the fleeing vampires. “I’ve already fucking looked! There’s nothing—”  

Suddenly, as far as he could see, Undead marched, perfect lines running beside each other. Some fled while others approached. The first visible wave of approaching Undead was less than a block away.  

Then the approaching vampires disappeared, replaced by shimmering, wavering air. 

The colonel turned and took off in a dead sprint, shouting at everyone. Strajowskie followed suit, albeit at a slower trot. He was still bewildered, pain wracking his entire body. The battle should be over. He should be crawling into the comforts of a hospital cot. His soldiers should be resting. The wounded and dead should be getting tended to. Their ranks should be getting fortified by the battalions stationed at the main encampment near Highway 77. 

Cannopolis, Keith, Lester, and Drake huddled around the bend in Eighth Street, fifty yards from the cannon. Cannopolis pointed at Drake. The colonel nodded and sprinted to the right, down Rucker Road. His Kevlar Dozen appeared as if from nowhere, surrounding him, shouting over the raucous at others. Hasty formations were created. The front line was replenished with refreshed soldiers who’d had the pleasure of sleeping or hiding all night. Hundreds of archers scaled the bluff across from Rucker Road. 

Strajowskie faltered as he neared Cannopolis, Keith, and Lester. He fell to one knee and spit blood onto the broken asphalt. Cannopolis sped toward him, face twisted in concern. Keith and Lester looked jostled, as if they had themselves participated in the night’s battle. In unison, they halted and stared over Strajowskie’s shoulder. 

Dizzy, he stood and spun around, squinting into the rising sunlight.  

As far as could be seen, there were bodies, an undulating ocean of shimmering Undead. 

Chapter 38

“Are you sure you don’t want to stay for some?” Stella asked, holding up the bag of goat meat. 

Brian didn’t think he could stomach its strong, gamey flavor. He also didn’t like leaving Ruby alone any longer than he needed to with John Ashmore. Though the old man seemed to have come back to his senses, he remained unstable. 

He declined Stella’s invitation and waved at the children gripping her thighs. They averted their gazes and hid behind her. He chuckled and stepped out of the Helping House. The new door he and Ruby had installed shut gently behind him. The deadbolt clicked as he hesitated beneath the new awning.  

He wished to avoid the bars—and unwanted attention—at all costs. His would-be assassins’ friends still huddled together every night outside the strip club, and many more Haven citizens than usual had begun to acknowledge him. He inhaled the gaudy scents wafting on the calm nighttime breeze, then set off toward the gatehouse.  

Moments later, a raised iron portcullis loomed to his left. It was only lifted at night, granting Undead citizens from surrounding Haven communities access to Safehold’s free market, stores, and endless nighttime entertainment. Fanged bodies poured through the gatehouse and scurried away, gaits purposeful. Brian eased his way through the throng of vampires, then turned right at the gatehouse, onto a newer cobblestone street he hadn’t yet traversed. Whereas the leftmost path leading from Safehold Keep always bustled with activity, the main path down the center was almost deserted. 

The overwhelming smell of urine and feces and wet, unkempt fur smacked him like a fist. On the right side of the main path was a stable, chock-full of tethered horses. Several Undead lurked near the hitching posts, averting their gazes and rubbing their necks. To their chagrin, a burly middle-aged vampire sat on a bench near the front door, a crudely fashioned wooden pitchfork resting across his lap.  

To the left of the cobblestone path, wooden gates formed a livestock shed. Inside, typical farm animals lounged in mud and dirt, oblivious to the dozens of customers eyeballing them from outside the pens. A paying customer hopped a fence and approached a plump piglet. The piglet squealed and darted, but the Undead caught it before it could move all four legs. Holding it by the scruff of the neck like a kitten, the customer hopped the fence again and walked past Brian, whistling a dreadful tune, the tempo of which mimicked the heartbeat of a frightened human. 

Brian moved onward, quickening his pace. Beyond the livestock area, two swinging silver gates appeared on his right, beneath a rounded arch. Upon the arch itself, unblemished gold calligraphy-style letters grabbed his attention: “Safehold Manors.” He stopped and stared through the gates’ glinting bars. There were houses beyond, lined up, row upon row, sidewalks spacing them apart equally. Extravagant walkways, stairs, decks, and lawn ornaments dotted the yards. Lights blazed on every porch. 

A grand fountain rested in the center of the gated community. Porch lights lent an ominous glow to the golden structure. Fine-crafted spouts encrusted with clear jewels jutted up from its center, half a dozen six-foot-tall maws reaching toward the skies and spewing clear water. A tiny but extravagant playground was nestled to the left of the fountain. Not even a swing moved from a wandering breeze. 

Childlike giggles rent the serene scene. The sounds were behind him. Brian turned. 

Across from the beautiful community, dingy shacks—much like the orphanage—were lined up, side-by-side, column-by-column. There was limited yard space because the shacks were too close together. Windows were glassless; porches drooped; screen doors hung on with one hinge. Shingles, boards, trash, and concrete blocks lined broken foundations, along with toys that had run their natural course of usage. A torch system similar to that which lined the outer walls lit the trash-laden community. 

Whereas the rich community—with its gates and lights aplenty—was secure and quiet, the slums were loud and eerie. Groups of Undead mingled on properties that were obviously not their own, paying Brian no heed. Grimy children frolicked in a rusty, downtrodden playground at the center, across from the golden fountain. Their innocent giggles caressed the night air.  

He watched them play, enthralled by their energy and happiness. Never had he witnessed a struggling community so exuberant, so many smiles plastered onto dirty, cherub faces. He smiled. It was rare to find communities of opposing classes so close together without witnessing resentment or greed twinkling in the lesser class’s eyes.  

He glanced once more at the lonely golden fountain behind him and then resumed his trek to Safehold Keep. When he reached the outskirts of both tiny communities, two three-story-tall brick buildings of similar size loomed on either side of the pathway. He recognized the Fire Department on the right and the Police Department on the left. Beyond, the Safehold moat gurgled, the drawbridge lowered, inviting.  

He strolled across the drawbridge, ignoring the bubbling moat. Though it was his personal liquid buffet every few days, he still avoided it at all costs. 

Upon entering the castle, Brian sped through the hallways and hidden passageways, navigating his way to Ruby and his bedchamber, anxious to fill her in on his conversation with Stella. Anxious to ensure she was safe, that John hadn’t lapsed into a maniacal fit and attempted to kill her again. 

And anxious to resume his research on the final ingredient for the platelet mushroom. 

***

John hummed as he shuffled through the disheveled passageway leading to the scientists’ chamber. There was little evidence that a battle had been fought there several days prior. Ashes had been swept into piles and lined up along the walls. The damaged stones had been repaired with mortar, the archways formed anew. 

He hugged the fresh linens closer to his body, glad the castle attendants had gone to enjoy the courtyard with the remainder of the blood-suckers. He’d grown to fear and loathe the Undead, yet he felt comfortable around that scientist. And the female, Ruby, wasn’t only gorgeous but also kind. The duo hadn’t pried into his feeble assassination attempt, hadn’t asked him questions about why he was in Safehold. They’d left him alone since their encounter.  

It was far more than Barnaby had ever afforded him.  

With the bickering voices no longer plaguing him, John entertained such thoughts without remorse. He couldn’t believe nearly a decade had passed in servitude to such a cruel vampire. In retrospect, he knew his sniveling and obedience had been irrational yet justifiable behaviors. His mind had been traumatized, and Barnaby had capitalized. He’d driven John to the brink of madness, had drained every ounce of energy and life out of him, had caused the voices to whisper within his mind.  

But now, now I’m in the right mind
, he thought. 
Now I’ll find a way to rid myself of Barnaby forever.
  

Death was the only resolution that would bring him peace from the torture and abuse, but killing Barnaby outright was impossible. John also couldn’t fathom committing suicide, so he would need to offend one of the Undead in the courtyard and hope they didn’t fear Barnaby’s swift retribution. Or anger Barnaby upon his return and force the Undead leader to strangle him once and for all.  

But after Frank Hammer’s public death, no Undead would risk killing John no matter what plan he could concoct to provoke them, and Barnaby himself would refrain from killing him. John was a prisoner. His death—his peace—would not come so easily.  

He didn’t wish to wait until natural death occurred, but he could see no other alternative. 

He slowed his pace and stopped humming as he neared the guest chamber. The entrance was open. Light filtered into the darkness of his quiet passageway. Beyond, muffled voices. He crept closer. Though the warring voices inside his own head had subsided, he longed for conversation. Even if he didn’t partake in it.  

“…be back in two days. I’ll confront him then.” 

Ruby muttered something indiscernible. John scuttled ever closer, risking being seen by the flickering candlelight.  

“Stella said he was gone on business that I’d rather not get involved in, Ruby. The way she said it was too meaningful to leave it alone.” 

“You can’t take on the patriarch of the vampires, Brian.”  

“I have no choice. I need to know if he’s behind this.” There was a slight rustle of clothing. “You don’t need to worry about me. I can take care of myself. All right?” 

There was a quiet smack and John’s stomach lurched in reminiscence: He used to kiss Catherine that way. After a dispute or a slight argument, quiet and soft, to let her know without doubt that he cared for her despite whatever was occurring at that moment. 

His lip trembled. He’d planned on kissing her just like that the day he’d returned from his adventure. Deeper, more passionate than ever before. 

Thanks to Barnaby, he would never have that pleasure again. 

John inhaled through his nose to quell the sorrow. 

Then Brian was in front of him, eyes awash in that brilliant, crackling blue energy that’d surfaced during the fight with Vince and his cronies.  

“How long have you been standing here?” Spittle flew from Brian’s whitish lips and his nostrils flared. He looked a lot like Barnaby did when he was upset. 

“I—But—I was—just—”              

Ruby stepped beside Brian and placed a slender hand on his shoulder. His balled fists relaxed. The electricity spitting from his eyes dwindled until they glowed like luminescent blue cat eyes. The scientist glanced at Ruby.  

“I’m sure he meant no harm,” she said. She then addressed John with that kind smile that he’d grown to like over the course of the past few days. “Did you, John?” 

He shook his head, hugging the fresh linens to his chest tighter. Memories flashed: Him being thrown against walls; the time Barnaby had chained him to a gallows and beaten him senseless with a cattail whip, leaving him inches from death but calling upon the priests and their remedies quickly enough to bring him out of his coma; being strapped to the stretching machine that had pulled his arms out-of-socket, and the ensuing pain when the priests had mended those wounds with great force and no regard for his human nervous system; watching the human soldiers being drained of their blood at Barnaby’s side while the Undead leader cackled with delight and stared upon the prisoners like tender morsels of the juiciest steak. 

Catherine, William, John Jr., Sarah. 

All at once, John burst into a fit of tears and flung himself at the feet of the two scientists. The linens tumbled from his grasp, and his robes flung up above his shoulders, exposing his back. He choked on dust and sorrow, wailing, “He’s evil! He’s a horrible creature!” Indistinct voices whispered, chattering. His eyes darted to and fro, darkness cast everywhere by his dislodged robes. Adrenaline rippled through him and he jumped to his feet, rearranging his garments. He glanced first at the female, then the male, then back again, body shaking and lungs lurching to escape his chest. 

What should I do? 
 

I want to run! 
 

I can’t! 
 

“I can’t run anymore!” he answered himself aloud. He closed his eyes, picturing Catherine’s beautiful features. Her cheeks, her chin. The sweet fragrance of her hair.  

His breathing slowed and the shakes subsided. He opened his eyes. The scientists stared at him aghast. They probably wanted to bash him over the head and drag him to a mental hospital.  

He exhaled loudly to scour the final vestiges of insanity from his system. His cheeks were still damp, and new tears streamed down them. But they were controlled tears. He wasn’t afraid anymore. He wasn’t afraid of destroying Barnaby. 

He wasn’t afraid of exposing the truth. 

“Come,” he beckoned, stepping onto the stairway beyond. “I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you everything.”