Daley, agile and strong for his age of forty, was the head of his personal security. Miller, the youngest bodyguard, had only been on the job a few weeks, but Strajowskie trusted him. And Cusko and Simpleton were the veterans. If things were about to get as hairy as he thought they would, he would want no one else to watch his back.
He stopped to gain his bearings. Several pairs of red eyes appeared before him. He heard the soft yet unmistakable thuck of Ashmore stakes plummeting into flesh at close range. Six shots. Then silence. Then a grunt.
He exploded from the ground and sprinted, both hands steadying the mini-Ashmore. The scene unfolded before him.
Twelve mangy, red-eyed wolves surrounded a heap of entangled body parts. Four giant beasts stood behind them. Strajowskie had never seen anything like them before. They looked to be formed of fragmented body parts, sewn together to make some creepy vampire-like monsters. Franken-vamps. One of the hulking beasts lay atop another body, which happened to be the focal point of every creature in the clearing.
Strajowskie charged the heap of bodies, pulling the trigger of his mini-Ashmore with every step. Nine of the twelve wolves went down before any of the other gathered creatures noticed his presence. He stopped at the head of the hulking giant splayed on the ground. The three remaining wolves bared their fangs and leapt at him, eyes aglow, jaws parted. In a flurry of fur and sinew, they tackled him to the ground. One wolf clamped down on his left forearm and tugged.
“Son of a bitch!” he shouted. Nigh-unbearable pain ripped through him. He dropped the mini-Ashmore on the ground beside him and reached over to grip the wolf’s neck, then ripped the wolf from his arm and tossed it toward the outskirts of the clearing. It hit the nearest hulking beast, and its body crumpled on impact.
Yells arose, disorienting the final two wolves. Strajowskie’s bodyguards charged onto the scene. One wolf leapt at Miller, the rookie.
Miller froze in place as the mangy ball of fur flew through the air. He was too ignorant of the ways of fighting and hadn’t worn a neck-brace. Before Strajowskie could call out a warning, the wolf ripped Miller’s throat out.
Strajowskie could barely move his left arm and feared the tendon was severed. The other wolf lunged at his throat. Choking down panic, he picked the mini-Ashmore back up with his right hand and aimed at the wolf as it attacked his protected neck. If the wolf leapt away, the stake intended to kill it would be driven into his own head.
He fired.
The wolf slumped on his chest.
Strajowskie heaved the dead wolf aside and scrambled up, using his right arm to get to his knees. The hulking beasts lumbered toward his bodyguards. They looked confused, taken aback by the bold and quick slaughter of their minions.
“Keep them busy!” he shouted.
His bodyguards jumped over the tangle of bodies in the center and parried the giants. Strajowskie whipped out his hunting knife and sliced his left pant leg around at knee height, then halfway down toward the hem. He slipped the piece down over his boot, slid the intact hem over his left arm and shoulder, and settled his warped arm inside the makeshift sling.
Gritting his teeth through the pain, he stood and kicked the wolf carcass in front of him. “Don’t you burst into ash, you vampire pieces of shit?” he muttered.
He took a few steps and paused. The giant on the ground moved. He had thought it was dead. He aimed his Ashmore.
Movement beneath it. A hand.
A human hand.
He rushed to the dead beast and maneuvered it aside using his right arm and his left leg to lift it. Beneath, covered in blood and mud, was General Cannopolis.
Strajowskie knelt beside the battered man. “Arthur, can you hear me?” The general’s eyes fluttered open and then closed again. Strajowskie put his right index finger beneath the general’s neck-brace and waited for a pulse. It was faint. He stood back up and surveyed the battle.
Daley, Simpleton, and Cusko had managed to slay the last wolf but were being hit from all sides by three of the four freakish creatures. Strajowskie tilted his head in awe as the fourth creature’s arms lengthened, punching Simpleton in the face from ten feet away.
Cannopolis needed to be hauled to a hospital. The injuries appeared too severe. The field hospital inside the encampment wouldn’t suffice.
To get him out of there, the enemies had to die.
Strajowskie stashed the mini-Ashmore in the waistband of his pants and snatched several clips from the holder strapped over the general’s chest. He picked up Cannopolis’ full-sized Ashmore and steadied it with his good hand. The beasts were forbidding, but they died just as vampires did.
That was something Strajowskie could handle.
Chapter 17
Daley bounded from beast to beast, calculated fists flying in fury. Simpleton sliced and stabbed with a small knife, parrying the blows of the enemy. Cusko panted and slouched, fatigued in the short yet daunting battle. Three of the beasts surrounded them, their limbs stretching with every punch or kick. The human trio was outmatched.
Strajowskie stepped over Cannopolis, the large Ashmore aimed, crocked in his armpit. He couldn’t get a clear shot, though. His bodyguards jumped into his line of fire whenever he was about to squeeze the trigger.
Daley shouted above the din of battle and the three bodyguards turned their backs to each other. They then stepped backward until their shoulders touched and they formed a human triangle. Daley shouted again and they rotated clockwise. They struck out, or blocked, then rotated again.
A dark shadow manifested just beyond the trio. The fourth creature. Strajowskie breathed through his nostrils and concentrated on the center of it. Daley passed through his line of sight, then the shadow was visible, then Cusko, then the shadow, then Simpleton. Daley, shadow, Cusko, shadow, Simpleton.
Strajowskie squeezed the trigger. Daley, Cusko, Simpleton. He squeezed the trigger again. A quiet growl arose behind the trio of bodyguards. The same rotation occurred and he shot once more. The shadow slumped to the ground.
They were no longer outnumbered, but his bodyguards wouldn’t be able to hold out much longer.
Strajowskie dropped the bulky crossbow and reached down to his ankle, bumping his injured arm against his leg. He grunted and bit back the pain, anxious to jump into the fray before it was too late. He reached into the special holster housed within the upper region of his boot and pulled out a set of sharp wooden six-point shuriken. He rolled the shuriken in the palm of his hand, then wrapped the appropriate fingers about them. Calmness washed over him.
“Down!” he shouted.
The three bodyguards ducked. He snapped his hand back and then forward again.
The shuriken struck home in the eyes of the beasts. Blinded and screeching, one lashed out and swiped Simpleton across the face. Specks of blood flew through the air. Strajowskie raced forward but lost his footing on the muddied grounds and tumbled onto his left arm. Searing pain wracked him as he skidded through the mud face-first. He came to a rest and shifted his weight to his good arm, cursing and grunting.
He got to his knees. Simpleton’s lifeless body struck the mud before him, his face twisted in pain, one eye missing from its socket and one shredded ear hanging by a piece of skin. Blood gushed out of a slash in his neck; the creatures had cut through his neck brace.
Strajowskie roared anew and scrambled to his feet. A fist flew out of the fog. He threw up his gimp arm in defense. Ignoring the pain, he reached down and pulled out two more shuriken. He whipped them outward and the scaly arm shot back away from him, both shuriken buried into it. Another howl filled the night air.
Cusko fell backward, knocking Daley down with him. Fog rolled over Cusko like a feather. There was an enormous gash on his chest. Daley was lost beneath him. Strajowskie hadn’t seen what had befallen them, but they weren’t moving.
The three beasts stepped into sight on the other side of the stricken bodyguards. They fixed their narrowed eyes on Strajowskie, panting like dehydrated dogs.
> He would have to stand alone.
He brought forth the mini-Ashmore, squeezing the trigger, spraying in an arc before him. He unleashed at least twenty stakes. Then there was a click but no rush of air, and no stake flew toward its destination. The clip was depleted.
“Goddamnit,” he murmured.
The creatures shambled toward him, stepping onto Cusko without regard. If the man had been alive before that, he was surely dead now. One of the creatures leapt into the air, drawing Strajowskie’s attention skyward. It hissed quietly as it materialized above him. An arm stretched downward, clawed fingers reaching to squash his head. Strajowskie dodged forward and to the right. The stretching arm deflected away as the legs of the airborne creature shot down in front of him, blocking his path.
Instead of heading forward, Strajowskie fell backward into a fetal position and grabbed the final two shuriken from the ankle sheath. Two arms slammed into the muddy ground on either side of him. The beast’s face and torso jutted into view, gaining speed as the strange-moving limbs reeled it in closer to the ground.
Strajowskie waited until it was five feet away and let the shuriken fly.
They jabbed into the creature’s jowl. Strajowskie was spattered with a fine mist of black blood. The creature wavered and the president rolled to his right. The creature crashed hard, chin raised parallel to the ground. Strajowskie rolled until he was on his knees. He crawled back over to the creature, one-handed as he was. It rolled onto its back. He reached over and yanked both shuriken out of its neck, gripped them until his hand bled, brought his arm up, and came down above the center of the creature’s chest.
The screech from the creature almost deafened Strajowskie. He stood and kicked down onto the half-buried shuriken with the sole of his boot. The creature shuddered and snapped its massive jaws, forked tongue snaking out from side to side. Its eyes rolled back. Its chest heaved once more as it took its final breath.
Strajowskie whirled around. A figure jumped up and screamed. Caked with blood and mud, Daley leapt onto the back of one of the remaining beasts. He brandished a tiny wooden stake and repeatedly stabbed the beast in the ear.
The beast slumped, fell to the ground, and lay still. Daley stood. The final beast swiped at the captain. He ducked to avoid the blow, then rolled past the creature, toward Strajowskie.
Panting and limping, the bodyguard who Strajowskie knew so little stood up beside him. Silent, they faced their final adversary.
The creature stalked forward and then stopped abruptly. Ten more of the beasts stepped forth from the ethereal fog. A massive, wide shape materialized in their midst.
Strajowskie stared across the ten feet of distance at General Hammers.
Chapter 18
Hammers stepped forward and held his hand up. The beasts remained where they were.
Strajowskie touched Daley on the shoulder and stepped forward as well.
In the center, nearly nose to nose, the president and the Undead general glared at each other. The glen was still.
“Never thought I’d see you out on the battlefield again, sir.”
“That makes two of us, General.”
Hammers surveyed the glen. “We accomplished much more than I anticipated tonight. This battle’s over, but this was only a taste of what’s to come.”
“A fuckin’ cowardly battle, then. Why the fuck do you even need weapons and Franken-vamps?”
“This is war. Anything goes. You taught me that.”
The president beamed. “I did.”
A cloud passed overhead, darkening Hammers’ visage. He then turned and walked back to the beasts. Together, they slipped away into the fog.
Strajowskie sighed, as much from relief as from exhaustion. Without a word, he stalked past Daley and knelt beside Cannopolis. The general was still alive, clinging to life by some means Strajowskie couldn’t fathom.
“Grab an ATV, Daley.”
Daley scurried off. When he returned, Strajowskie grabbed a tarp from the satchel on the back of the ATV. Gingerly, they maneuvered Cannopolis onto it. The president ordered Daley to grab another vehicle, then used rope to tie the tarp to the rear of the first ATV. Once Daley came back, they tied the other end of the tarp to the front of the second one.
Mindful to avoid bumps and maintain a steady distance apart, the two weary men transported Cannopolis back to the encampment in the makeshift hammock.
***
John Ashmore slipped from between the bar and the liquor store, pulling his robe tighter to avoid recognition by the throng of Undead gathered outside the establishments. The Master was preoccupied in his chamber and John had no protection. The priest had healed him six hours earlier, but his body still ached. And the voices still butted in.
He located the group of men he’d been searching for. He paused on the outskirts of the lights and wrung his hands together. What would happen if the Master had an inkling of what he was about to do?
It had to be done. It was the only way.
He hobbled over to the group of men. The largest looked up, gray eyes narrowed. John gulped. Of the three he needed to speak to, Gunther was the most imposing of the trio. He soon spotted Rufus, the fattest vampire he’d ever known, and Vince, the scrawny leader of the band of vampire scoundrels.
Gunther smirked. “Whaddya want, Master’s lil’ puppet?”
John shrugged off the insult. “I need to speak with you. Rufus and Vince as well.”
Gunther puffed out his already enormous chest. The smirk disappeared. He eyed John up and down, then nodded. The group dispersed, save for Rufus and Vince.
Vince clapped John on the back. “Ashmore, to what honor do we owe your presence? I thought you didn’t come out without your master?”
“I have matters that even the Master need not know of.”
Vince’s white eyes widened, the bags beneath them lengthening. He licked his lips and smiled. “Come,” he said, beckoning in the direction of the alleyway John had entered the night-scene from. “Do tell.”
Once in the alley, with Rufus standing at the entrance, John pushed back his cowl. “This is serious business. I’ll deny all of it if the Master ever catches scent of it. And he won’t be pleased with any of you if he believes you’re lying to him.”
Vince jabbed him in the chest with a bony finger. “Since when do you come off telling us the rules?”
He refrained from pushing the Undead’s finger away. Though Vince was the thinnest and least imposing vampire of the three within the alley, John knew better. “Since I became the official emissary of the Master. The one who relays messages.” He paused. “The one who can ask for more prisoners.”
Rufus’ eyes widened. “Fresh humans?”
Gunther glared at Rufus. “Block tha alley, ya big buffoon.”
John nodded, staring into Vince’s pure white eyes. “That’s right. Human prisoners for you to toy with as you please. Several every time the Master asks for some.”
Vince removed his finger from John’s chest, smiling anew. “Pardon my manners, Ashmore. Please, tell us more.”
John explained what he wanted done. After a short side conversation, all three vampires agreed. They left him alone in the alley, desire dancing in their eyes.
John slipped through the hidden passageway that led to a series of tunnels beneath the outer wall. Eventually he made his way into the lowest level of the castle, to the moat. He sat on the middle of the bridge that spanned the flowing blood and smiled.
The voices whispered, complimenting him, letting him know he’d done right, the outcome would work out as planned.
After the scientists were dead, he would be by his Master’s side again.
***
Brian screamed. Nothing came out but bubbles. His eyes fluttered open, his vision scarlet in color.
He was immersed in liquid. The fountain! He flopped and splashed, trying to gain his footing. Air! Blood dispersed everywhere as he thrashed about. He finally planted his feet on the solid floor of the f
ountain and pushed his body up. Cool air caressed his skin.
He gulped at the air like a fish, eyes closed. His chest rose and fell, but no air rushed in or out. And that was when he realized he didn’t need to breathe.
He laughed, overwhelmed with the reality. He was dead.
Or rather, Undead.
Handfuls of different noises assaulted him. He screamed, placing his hands over his ears. Then pungent body odor, the stench of decaying flesh, and the oily smell of kerosene wafted in. He took a hand away from his ear to pinch his nose. The constant sounds berated him anew. He repeatedly moved his hands from his nose to his ears, screaming all the while.
But when he detected a hint of roses over the sweet smell of the bloody fountain pool, all sounds were drowned out. He salivated. His heart thumped. His chest rose and fell without needing to. He became intoxicated by the smell and opened his eyes.
He didn’t know where he was or how he’d gotten there or who he was. He didn’t care. He needed to find that taunting aroma.
He glanced around the room. Some guy sat on a throne to his right. No, something like him, with black hair and ridiculous frilly clothing. His eyesight blurred and he flung his head to the left. Eyesight focused: Five people covered in cloaks. Eyesight magnified. Dark, purplish blotches beneath the cloaks. No, not people. They were also like him.
He glanced to his right again. The ridiculously dressed thing-like-him stepped from the throne. Eyesight magnified. The thing-like-him was dark and splotchy as well.
The sounds slammed into him again. Above the raucous clamor, he heard a heartbeat. It fluttered like a hummingbird’s wings. It was loud, incessant.
Shouting, telling him to find it.
He looked straight ahead, eyesight focused. A petite, beautiful, soft-skinned creature. Female. Not like him. The rose scent and the sound of the heartbeat drowned him in their glory. That was the source.
Eyesight magnified. Yellow and red danced in her silhouette, with orange and green, even a few sporadic spots of deep purple. At its center was the hummingbird, a bright red splotch.
The Human-Undead War Trilogy (Book 1): Dark Intentions Page 13
