The Human-Undead War:
Dark Intentions
The Human-Undead War Trilogy Book 1
By
Jonathan Edward Ondrashek
Burning Willow Press, LLC (USA): 3724 Cowpens Pacolet Rd., Spartanburg, SC 29307
This edition published in 2016 by Burning Willow Press, LLC (USA)
Copyright © Jonathan Edward Ondrashek 2016
Cover Art © Dean Samed 2016
Edit © Georgina Thomas 2016
Interior Format © Kindra Sowder Formatting Services 2016
All rights reserved.
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Chapter 1
July 21, 2041 AD
The four men sat, silent. Their rented speedboat hummed as they navigated toward a cove off the shore of Washington State. Scuba gear pitched from one side of the deck to the other as choppy waves threatened to overtake the gunwale. Once inside the cove, Carl killed the motor and set about collecting his gear.
“So how’s retirement treating you, birthday boy?” he asked. His tanned head glinted in the sunlight.
John Ashmore smiled, remembering the curly black locks Carl had when they’d been in college in upper Iowa. “Oh, not too bad. Miss the farm, strange as it may seem. The smells, the noises. Nothing like that in the city.”
Matthew stopped scribbling in his notebook. Since retiring the previous year, he’d continued to write poetry as a hobby. “You still haven’t told us what the real occasion is,” he said, looking up from his written musings.
John stared into the immortal depths of the ocean, his argument with his wife, Catherine, gnawing at him. Why was he so upset over something that had happened twenty years ago? “I just needed to get away for a couple days. Catherine—she did something long ago, something—”
Bill clapped him on the back. “It doesn’t matter. It’s your birthday. Let’s enjoy one last journey before we break our hips.”
Carl and Matthew chuckled, but John lingered on the information his wife had shared. Things hadn’t been the same since his kidney transplant. Catherine was distant. She’d revealed her horrible secret weeks ago and he’d been on a downward spiral ever since. He cared not about his hygiene or health. He spoke to no one, huddled in his basement den, avoiding sunlight and moonlight alike. Insomnia was his primary companion.
Something dark gaped below the boat and derailed his depressing train of thought. Out of the pitch-black opening something shone like a welcoming beacon. He quirked an eyebrow and pointed. “What the hell is that?”
Bill, Matthew, and Carl crowded around him, scratching their heads and staring for several hushed minutes.
“We just going to stand here and stare?” Bill asked. He had always been the ornery one of the group, and that trait had become more dominant in the past few years.
John’s stomach churned with excitement. It was just what he needed to scorn the ever-present despair. He smiled wide. “No. We’re going in.”
Twenty minutes later, they slid from the boat in their scuba gear. They each had small water-proof packs on top of their tanks, filled with assorted items from flashlights to rope to knives, and, in Matthew’s case, writing utensils.
John led the way, following the beacon. They hadn’t brought their linked communications devices, as usual, relying on their trust and experience with one another instead. As they approached the entrance, he held up a hand and pulled out his flashlight, turning it on. The light shone off an assortment of items that had somehow found shelter in the entrance. There were piles of gold coins, which had provided the beacon that attracted John’s attention to begin with. Scattered throughout the coins were goblets and multiple colored gemstones, tattered clothing, and deadwood. Carl danced a jig in the gravity-free water, and John concurred: They’d happened upon unimaginable wealth. He turned to his comrades and shrugged.
They nodded and he continued on inside.
They followed the trail of treasures for ten minutes only to discover it eventually climbed out of the water. They reached an underground water-free cavern, pulled of their masks and gasped in unison.
“Holy shit!” John placed his hand on sparkling crystals embedded in the walls of the cave. “Are these diamonds?”
Carl took out a pick-axe and pried one crystal out of the dirt, then pocketed it. “Doesn’t matter. They’re ours. All of them. This whole fucking cave is ours.” He smiled at John. “Nice birthday gift, huh?”
Bill kicked at the ground. “Well, you can have all of this crap, Carl.” He shone his flashlight on stark-white bones.
John had seen his share of animal carcasses on the farm. “Looks like coyote bones. Maybe a wolf?”
“Where there’s bones, there’s death. And I don’t want to meet whatever killed these things.” Bill started putting his gear back on. “Screw it, let’s get out of here.”
“Wait.” Matthew was fifty meters away, at the top of a treacherous incline. “I think I see light ahead. Maybe half a mile.”
“I’m cold and hungry and this place gives me the creeps. I just want to get the fuck out of here. I say we swim back to the boat.” Bill wiped his nose on his wet-suit. “What’s that damn smell?”
John sniffed. “Sulfur. And those bones are old, but something else died down here recently too.” He climbed to the embankment to accompany Matthew. “Could be more of these crystals up ahead. I say we stash the gear here, find out what else is inside this cave. It shouldn’t take long.”
Bill didn’t budge. “If you’re not back in an hour, I’m leaving without you.”
“I’m too old for this shit.” Carl climbed up to meet John and Matthew, breathing raggedly. “But I’d rather walk than hang out alone with Bill.”
They chuckled as Bill grumbled. Leaving their grumpy friend alone, they took off, John once again in the lead. There were no more treasures from that point on, just the overwhelming scent of sulfur mixed with rotting flesh. He guessed twenty minutes had passed before they stopped on the trail, weary.
“Come on, Bill was right. Let’s go back, take what we can, and leave,” Mathew whined.
Light spilled around a bend in the pathway ahead. John threw up his hands. “You guys are going to wuss out now? We’re almost out of here.”
“We didn’t ask for this vacation.” Carl furrowed his brow. “What was so damn urgent you had to drag us along on this trip anyway?”
“I needed release.” John reached out and grabbed Carl by the shoulder. “Look, if there’s nothing around that damn bend, we’ll go back, take our share of the treasure, and go home wealthy old bastards.”
Carl glanced at Matthew, who shrugged. They fell into step behind John once more.
“I swear, we better get out of here soon. I’m cold, I’m tired, and this suit is driving me nuts.”
Carl’s bickering was brought to an abrupt halt as they rounded the bend in the pathway. Sunlight filtered through cracks in a boarded-up cave entrance straight ahead. They’d found
an easy exit.
However, between them and freedom was a small group of gaunt, malnourished people. In the midst of their little band, sprawled across the floor, were the remains of a decimated, unrecognizable animal. Organs and blood were spilled everywhere.
“What the fuck?” John whispered, stepping backward. The people turned to greet the stricken adventurers, blood dripping from their jaws. One hissed and grinned, revealing sharp teeth. The tribe stalked forward.
“Run!” John shouted.
The three men sprinted off. John’s heart pounded so loud from adrenaline that he was unsure if the blood-curdling shrieks and deranged panting were his own or that of the pursuers. Heavy, rapid footsteps echoed behind him. They were closing in fast.
Ten minutes of excruciating sprinting later, they sighted Bill by the underwater entrance. He’d taken his gear off again and was prying crystals out of the walls.
“Get the tanks ready!” John slid down the steep incline, tearing his wet-suit in the process.
Bill turned, jolted by their sudden appearance. “What?”
They reached him together and fumbled with the equipment. “Just the tanks and masks. Screw the rest of it.” John’s heart refused to slow down.
“What are you mumbling about?”
John pointed. “Monsters. Cannibals. I don’t know what the hell they are, but I know we need to leave now!” He froze as figures crested the incline and slid down toward them.
Carl handed out weapons from their discarded water-proof packs. “There’s no time. We’re stuck.”
Each man was armed with a flashlight, a knife, and a pick-ax. They formed a line of defense between their exit and the monsters.
The creatures rushed in at inhuman speeds. Before John could blink, Matthew was overrun by four of the scrawny assailants. They ripped and tore with ferocity, leaving him a mess of raw muscle and organs. His life-blood stained the feet of his friends within seconds.
“No!” John hacked with a knife at one of those who had felled his friend, to no avail. With one swift backhand, the creature knocked John into the water. John crawled forth from the ocean, sputtering, vision unclear.
Carl cried out. His guttural roar reverberated through the enclosed space as he sliced upward with his small pick-ax at the nearest enemy— judging by the breasts, a female, and the leader of the group, as the other things behind her cowered in her presence. The enemy's arm was cut clean off from her torso.
The remaining three men watched in horror as the creature picked up its severed limb, reattached it, and then swiped at Carl. Reflections from the crystals and water revealed his slashed throat. Blood spilled down his chest. His eyes rolled back and he slumped to the floor in a loud thud.
"Carl!" John shouted.
The assailant held some dripping thing high above her head—what appeared to be Carl's esophagus—and laughed a high-pitched psychopathic laugh. It threw the meaty object to its comrades, who dove at it hungrily. Then the female hissed and inched forward, a wicked grin on her bony face. Her rich black hair was unkempt, yet a telltale widow’s peak was visible on her pale, protruding forehead. Blood dripped from her fingers like melting icicles.
Bill and John were backed up to the watery hole in the ground with nowhere to run. Bill trembled as if possessed by a seizure. John stepped in front of him, knife brandished. He motioned toward their stashed gear with his free hand.
"No. I stay with you," Bill whispered. His face had become as pale as their assailants' faces and he still shook uncontrollably.
The other creatures stopped feasting to crowd behind the female. Caked in blood, they crept forward as a cohesive unit. John and Bill waited until they were within reach, then attacked, outraged by the deaths of their friends. Once again, John was smacked aside. Lying on the stained floor, almost unconscious from the blow, he watched as Bill fell to the same fate as Matthew and Carl.
John wanted to give up then, but suddenly remembered his wife, his daughter, his son, his grandchildren, and found in himself a determination he never knew existed. He jumped up and howled, flinging two of the creatures away from Bill with ease. They crashed into the cavern rock-wall and whimpered like injured hyenas. Intestines spilled at his feet.
They’d already devoured Bill’s lower body.
Seething with fear and hatred, John squared off against the female as the other creatures cowered in the shadows. They circled each other and then darted in, each smirking in triumph when the other had been wounded. Again, John’s slashes and jabs did little but anger the female. Her claws alone dug deep into his flesh, searing, tearing. He fought with every ounce of strength he could muster but soon became weary of the game.
The female creature shoved him hard into the rock wall. As he connected with the structure, diamond-like tips jabbed into his back. He slumped to the floor, back against the wall, his blood mingling with that of his comrades', their lives running together into the salty depths of the Pacific.
He was done. The female stood upon his thighs, pinning him down, bottomless black eyes staring into his own. Her breath was fetid. John swallowed vomit. He saw red, and white, flitting patterns of moving light. Believing his death to be near, he reached beside himself to grasp a weapon, any weapon. Several of Matthew's books and utensils had been thrown from their waterproof pouch. John's hand tightened on a sturdy wooden pencil.
The female jumped back from him, grinned wide to reveal ivory fangs, then charged at him full speed, probably hoping to crush his head and taste his precious brain matter. John held the pencil with both hands—such a stupid little thing!—out before him.
She impaled herself upon it with confidence, probably thinking it nothing more than another insignificant metal blade. The smile faded from her face and her eyes widened in shock.
Then she burst into ash.
"I’ll be damned," John muttered as ash choked the air. Since 2038, there had been hushed rumors about vampires existing. Unexplained disappearances, bloodied bodies riddled with tiny punctures found in ditches near English farming communities, two dozen patrons massacred in a tiny pub in London. United States officials had denied the rubbish, and John himself had batted the information away as another publicity scare-tactic.
But it hadn’t been bullshit.
Somehow he found the strength to stand and balance upon his feet, blood dripping from the multiple wounds he’d suffered. He held the pencil before him like a wand, turning this way and that, trudging through the remaining creatures. They fled and hid against the walls as he passed. He held his head high, chest out. They wouldn’t attempt to kill him so long as he had his precious weapon.
He made it to the entrance of the cavern without further incident and then plowed into the boards that had sheltered it from humanity. The boards splintered upon impact, and John collapsed on a sunny beach. Handfuls of tourists and locals were already enjoying another beautiful day. People noticed him and rushed to his aid.
“Please, they killed—I saw—Run!” John shouted. He gestured at the cavern opening less than five feet away and shook, unable to point straight.
One of the creatures sped from the entrance and onto the beach. Sightless eyes darted back and forth. Nostrils flared. A dry, cracked tongue darted out as it raised its head skyward.
The tourists and locals scrambled, screaming.
The creature screeched in agony as the rays of the sun beat upon it. It burst into flames, the skin melting on its anguished face before it erupted in a cloud of ash only feet away from where John lay in a heap of crushed spirit.
The stench was overwhelming. Many of the onlookers vomited.
John neither screamed nor vomited.
Chapter 2
Local authorities, reporters, paramedics, and firefighters were on the scene within minutes. FBI and CIA agents followed, along with a host of other government officials. Marines were soon dispatched to destroy the remainder of the creatures within the cave. A call to military forces echoed throughout the world, and t
he search for vampire havens started.
After his wounds were treated, a relentless stream of agents questioned John and paid for a motel room to keep him nearby during the investigation. They quickly determined it was not murder. Not only was there no evidence, but the creature John killed wasn’t human, or a known animal, which disallowed any charges. The reception was opposite of what he’d expected: They’d named the cavern Ashmore Cave and were touting him as a hero. He didn’t much appreciate the spotlight and sulked in his room in as much solitude as the intruding media-folk and investigators would allow.
He tried calling Catherine every chance he could, but she wouldn’t answer and their landline phone didn’t have an answering machine. John was relieved when the FBI gave him a plane ticket home five days after the incident. He would be able to return the exact day he’d planned to when he’d set off on his impromptu vacation. Catherine would be expecting him.
He boarded the plane alone, gripping his carry-on tight—Matthew’s bag of writing material, the one item he’d been able to salvage from the crime scene. It was worth keeping. Bill had shoved several gems and goblets into the pouches before the attack, and nobody had bothered to search it. Airport security had pushed him through the metal detectors without blinking as the alarms rang.
The flight was a blur of puffy clouds and light blue nothingness. He dozed. Horrid images of his dead friends invaded his dreams. He awoke as the plane touched down, quickly exited, grabbed his bags, and hailed a taxi to take him to their new house, the one the media wouldn’t know about. They’d signed for the new place in the city before his trip, but the farmhouse was his official documented address and he’d wanted to keep it that way.
John stepped out of the taxi, glad to be away from the circus of cameras and reporters that had plagued him. He walked past the white picket fence, through the dew-laced grass. He was happy to be home even though his body was bruised, battered and bandaged. The sunrise was a brilliant mixture of pink, purple and white cotton balls. The silence of the dawning morning was a welcome break from the calamity of the last few days.
The Human-Undead War Trilogy (Book 1): Dark Intentions Page 1
