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

by Jonathan Edwardk Ondrashek

Barnaby moved closer, gaining speed.

  The warmth erupted outward like a spider web, jumping his new supersensitive nerve endings. He could feel each gap between the synapses being bridged by the strange sensation, could envision it happening as if he were inside himself watching the process occur.

  And in milliseconds, he was healed.

  He rolled to the right and Barnaby smashed into the granite-tiled floor. Chunks erupted. A gap opened beside the female statue, and Barnaby’s trajectory sent him crashing into the fountain basin below. Blood spouted up like a geyser.

  Granite tiles beneath Brian cracked and crumbled, then fell away. He shot his hands out and gripped the edge of the intact marble. His body dangled in the open maw. Broken chunks tumbled into the fountain, burying a lifeless Barnaby in a heap of dust and debris.

  Brian swung his legs forward, then back. He burst into the air in a backward upward flip. His momentum propelled him forward as his head cleared the floor above. He landed on his feet on the edge of the marble tiles, turned about, and peered at the disaster below.

  A deep cackle echoed in the hollowed cavern. Debris burst apart as Barnaby stood, covered in blood from head to toe. He craned his neck at awkward angles. Bones cracked in an ominous chorus. “Thank you, Koltz. You just saved me a trip to the chiropractor.”

  Brian staggered backward as Barnaby flew out of the gap and landed before him. Barnaby threw wild punches—left, right, left, left, left. Brian warded them off with timed open-palm blocks. But the ferocity of the strikes kept him reeling backward, unable to mount an offense.

  Barnaby threw hearty outside leg kicks, slapping into Brian’s outer thighs. The blows bit deep into his muscles. He ignored the pain, which ebbed away almost instantaneously, but his legs soon wobbled from the blows.

  A brutal inside kick landed. He stumbled. Barnaby capitalized, connecting with a left jab. Brian’s right cheek split. He checked the next outer leg kick with his shin, gripped Barnaby’s ankle before he could pull away, yanked him forward, ducked down, and drove his shoulder into Barnaby’s midsection. He lifted the Undead off of his feet and plowed him into the marble floor.

  Before Brian could take advantage of the position, Barnaby wrenched his left arm behind his back. It snapped at the elbow. Brian howled. He wriggled free of Barnaby’s grip and stood, arm dangling at his side.

  “I have found better opponents in wild animals,” Barnaby taunted, still on his back.

  Brian screamed at his body to heal. The warmth spread around his elbow. He brought his leg up and down, hoping to land a heel kick to Barnaby’s chest. The Undead leader rolled away, but Brian’s heel nicked his pelvic bone. A loud crunch reverberated inside the chamber.

  Barnaby performed a spin-wheel on his back, placed his knees beneath himself, and stood. He then smiled and beat his fist on his hip. “See, all healed up, Koltz. Just like that.”

  Brian waved. “Me too.”

  Barnaby conceded a small dip of the head, then jumped at Brian with a sudden Superman punch. He connected, hitting Brian’s temple so hard Brian almost lost consciousness. He shook it off but stumbled backward into one of the many statues lining the chamber.

  He was outmatched, outwitted. He couldn’t win like this. Barnaby’s powers were too great to overcome. Yet the Undead leader wouldn’t relinquish the attack. Until what? What would it take to get Barnaby to stop attacking?

  Coldness crept along the back of his neck. He wheeled about to face the statue. A scimitar rested in molded hands. A free one, not welded in place.

  A weapon might do the trick.

  Brian hefted the scimitar out of its resting place and wheeled around. Barnaby was up, yanking a spear from a statue on the opposite side of the room.

  “I did not expect to progress to weaponry during our first sparring match, Koltz, but I will happily oblige.”

  Brian tossed the lofty scimitar from hand to hand. Barnaby twirled the spear like a baton before him, circling toward the center of the chamber, near the gaping hole in the floor. He shot in. Brian closed the gap. The spear head cut in fluidly to strike at Brian’s ribs, but he was ready for it. He whirled the scimitar in an arc before the strike and knocked the spear to the side. He tucked one knee up and jumped with his other foot, attempting to catch Barnaby off guard with a flying knee to the chin.

  But Barnaby twirled his weapon before him and checked the knee.

  As his knee cracked against the spear’s shaft, Brian brought the scimitar behind his head and chopped downward.

  Barnaby’s twitching arm thumped to the floor, black blood pooling beneath it.

  Chapter 24

  Brian dropped the scimitar. “Holy shit! I didn’t mean to, I swear!”

  Barnaby chuckled. His spear clacked on the marble floor. He bent and picked up his arm. “I am sure you did not, Koltz. But you are forgetting one thing.”

  He placed the severed arm against his bloody shoulder. There was a formidable sucking sound. Then Barnaby stooped and grasped the spear with both hands again.

  “That’s impossible!”

  Barnaby whirled the spear at his right side. He then ducked into a crouch and slid the spear out of his hand, dragging the floor in a wide arc. It caught Brian’s heels and he splayed onto his back. The tip of the spear was at his throat. Barnaby stood above him, grinning.

  “Never underestimate your opponent. Impossible things happen when you deal with vampires.”

  Brian’s vision became hazy. Rage flooded through him. He batted the spear away and kicked out, tripping Barnaby. The Undead leader fell, growling, but was on his feet again before Brian could think of moving.

  Brian put his hands on the floor behind his head, elbows facing up. He kicked his legs straight up and followed through with the kip up, something he’d never been able to perform before. He then stood before Barnaby, seething. He blurred his vision and charged, careening into Barnaby’s midsection as the winds heeded his call. With the breeze accelerating him, he held tight to Barnaby and they slammed into a wall, against a large tapestry with Egyptian-like designs embroidered on it.

  While still in Brian’s grasp, Barnaby snarled, twisted his body around, and yanked on the tapestry.

  Sunlight spilled into the room from a previously hidden window, high up on the wall. Brian released Barnaby and stepped out of the sunlight. The rage boiling inside withered away until only a wave of fatigue remained to wash over him.

  “This training session is complete.” Barnaby held his hands out at his sides and levitated several inches from the ground. “I admire your unwillingness to kowtow. Your instinctive survival mode. But you are young, naïve in your new abilities. You may have bested me several times, but, overall, you would have failed. You underestimated your opponent’s powers and neglected your own limitations. Let that be today’s lesson.”

  Brian grinned and stepped into the sunlight. “I still have a few tricks up my sleeve too.”

  Barnaby’s eyes widened. He stepped back down to the floor.

  “What’s wrong?” Brian asked as Barnaby paced around him, hand to chin. “Did you underestimate your opponent as well?”

  ***

  “How could you have failed? He was an easy target!”

  Vince scowled. “Who are you, to belittle us for our failure? He’s still fresh blood. He will die easily enough the next time, I guarantee it.”

  John Ashmore crossed his arms over his chest. He didn’t wish to banter with the assassin, but he was beside himself with rage. He glanced past Vince. Gunther and Rufus held their fresh, new play-toys by their chains, still gagged and bound. He had given them six, yet they hadn’t held up to their end of the bargain. “Three is all you’ll get, then. I’ll keep the other three safe and sound until you complete this task.”

  Vince’s white eyes flared in the dark sub-basement of the Keep. “I urge you to avoid empty threats, Ashmore. Or you might just end up being our dessert tonight.”

  John gulped. Was he overstepping his boundaries? Was he
to cave in to them as he did the Master? The voices bickered in his mind. No, he should not cave. These insolent slaves to the Master wouldn’t harm him. If anyone was spewing empty threats, it was Vince. John had every right to divvy out the prize as he saw fit.

  He acknowledged the burns on Vince’s hands. Three would do, if at least to give Vince some reprieve from his permanent scars. “Three. Next time, three. And if you succeed, three more,” he stated, stepping past Vince toward the goofy pair of the trio.

  Gunther stepped forward as he neared the captives, chest bulging, eyes spitting with that strange fire that seemingly only showed when a vampire was pissed off. “Ya ain’t gettin’ past me, pat’etic excuse for a bag o’ bones!”

  Vince appeared next to Gunther, placing a scarred hand on the brute’s shoulder. “Now, now. Ashmore’s right. We failed. A kind gesture of three humans is better than none.”

  Gunther eyed John but stepped aside. John smiled in passing, then rubbed his hands together before the six human prisoners. He chose the three largest, best-fed humans and led them back through the trio.

  “Now you’re just playing dirty, Ashmore.”

  John stalked up to Vince and laughed, slaves in tow. “Three. That was the only compromise. If you fail again, the deal’s off. The Master will have three extra captives, then, a small token of the Undead Army’s respect for such a gratuitous leader. And there will never be word of our deal.”

  Vince puffed out his bony chest. “If you think we will fail again, maybe you should do it yourself. But then, you aren’t made of such mettle, are you?”

  John paused. Maybe Vince was right. Maybe he was too cowardly to perform the task himself.

  No, a voice whispered. You are not cowardly but rather too cunning to do the dirty deed yourself. Better to play the pawns than to be one yourself.

  The three vampire assassins gathered around their human fodder and smacked their lips. John turned and led his three captives away from the salivating Undead. He followed a passageway so congested with cobwebs that he had to tread slowly, more-so while herding the blindfolded, gagged, and bound slaves. He shoved them into an old storage closet. Nobody ever trekked all the way to the furthest corner of the castle. Nobody would hear their muffled, helpless pleas. He would feed them several meals a day. Bring them water. Keep them fat.

  He left the passageways he himself hadn’t ventured into for half a decade, and made his way back to the moat. The vampire assassins and their human meals were gone.

  He sat, dangling his feet above the bubbling blood. The voices in his head whispered, telling him he was doing the right thing, that the Master would soon enough see him for his true worth. Vengeance—however small, and to whomever it was directed—was on the cusp of completion. Vengeance would bring closure to the happy times and the unrecognizable innocent faces that often haunted his dreams.

  Unable to quiet the voices in his head, though, his memories of such happy times eluded him.

  “I thought I smelled human.”

  John started and almost fell into the churning blood below. A figure loomed above him, floating on the air scant inches from the ground. “M-Master!”

  The Master held up his hand. “Remain where you are. Your stench is overwhelming today. If I did not know better, I would believe you were housing humans down here.”

  John scrambled to his feet. He fell to his knees and bowed in servitude. “Master, it’s just me. No one else.”

  The Master glared. “Our newest family member and I have been training, and he is full of surprises. He has inherited more traits of mine than any others I have turned. So I want you to relay a message to Hammers.

  “Pull back the forces for the next four days. Then release the jackals an hour or two before sunset on the fifth night. And inform him the wraiths should follow. I want a full-fledged assault with our new creations. No weaponry, only the savagery of our army.”

  John gasped. “But Master, they will—”

  The Master gripped John’s throat. “Do not dare to question me, insolent fool! Do as I bid, or remain here forever as nothing more than a castle rodent!”

  John nodded. His eyes bulged and his lungs screamed for air. The Master released his grip. John fell onto the dusty bridge, gasping.

  “I want to know the results of this little experimental tactic once it is finished.” He stared upon John, who was trembling and rubbing his throat. “My, how the mighty have fallen,” the Master mumbled. Then he was gone.

  He’s insane! Couldn’t he see that his demand was irrational? The Master was condemning his most precious secret weapons by loosing the jackals upon the Human Army during daylight.

  Let him fall!

  Let him make this grave mistake, that you might watch him succumb to defeat once and for all.

  John nodded. The mighty haven’t fallen yet, but they will, in due time.

  The voices agreed.

  Chapter 25

  Keith placed the specimen back onto the dish with his left hand, then rapped his new right-hand pincer on the countertop. Sturdy. Strong. The pincers were sharpened to precise points. A steel rod had been drilled into his humerus and ran the length of his new forearm. A wiring system connected to his nerves ran through the core. His brain controlled the pincers as if they were a thumb and an index finger; one subconscious thought and the pincers moved. Thin titanium plates had been attached, filling his arm out to resemble a real one. Kevlar had been trimmed down to thin shells and fused to the titanium, and a thin layer of corrosion-free paint had been applied to resemble his natural skin color.

  It looked real. Except for the pincers.

  In his struggle to prove his worth, he’d defied the doctor’s suggestion to await a bionic, electronic, life-like hand. He regretted the decision. It was hindering him. Hell, the arm was now more of a weapon than anything.

  The flaps on the tent parted and sunlight spilled inside. Keith raised his left hand to block the light as a hulking figure pushed through the open flaps.

  “Gorilla and boa constrictor,” Keith said as Strajowskie stepped beside him.

  “Huh?”

  “Gorilla and boa constrictor. Their DNA were spliced to create these monsters.”

  “Don’t feed me random bullshit.”

  Keith chuckled. “I’m not feeding you bullshit, Mr. President.” He gripped the end of the beastly arm before him with his pincers, careful not to apply too much pressure lest he slice it in half. “The gorilla genes provide its basic features and functions: the facial features, the hirsute appearance, even down to the nervous system and other organs. But the muscular and integumentary systems are much like that of a boa constrictor.”

  He pointed as Strajowskie huddled closer. “See these two muscle groups? Each muscle acts of its own accord. The creatures weren’t elongating in the sense that they can defy the physical realm. They were simply contracting and relaxing their muscles. Their bodies are covered in scales, like snakes, with a thin layer of stretchable skin beneath. So the arms and legs—even the torso—can appear to elongate as the muscles contract or relax and the scales and skin stretch.” He gripped the other end of the specimen with his left hand and stretched the organ, then released. It shrank to normal size, like an accordion.

  “Interesting.”

  “It gets better. The bones closest to the joints are fused in place, but its major bones aren’t. They’re more like the sliding plates of a forming human skull. So the muscles, skin, and bone structure can twist, turn, and stretch beyond comprehension, with ease.”

  “Cannopolis shucked six arrows into this body. Regulars go down with one. What killed it?”

  “Sliding breastplate.” Keith motioned with his hands, sliding fingers together. “There’s more.” He pulled a microscope from the center of the countertop, then gestured for the president to be seated at the stool. “Have a look.”

  Strajowskie obliged and peered into the microscope. “What am I looking at?”

  “Their vampire virus. O
ne we haven’t seen before.”

  Strajowskie leaned back on the stool and grimaced. “This isn’t good.”

  “Sure isn’t.”

  “Manera, the other scientists were still scratching their asses before you got here. It only took you a day to figure this mess out. I’m impressed.”

  Keith beamed. He was glad to be out of the hospital. He’d been beside himself with anxiety and impatience during recovery. He was thankful Strajowskie had only made him stay bed-ridden for a week, as promised. The doctors had suggested he remain in the hospital for another month to conduct further analyses and allow him to acclimate to his new body part, but he’d declined. Probably not a wise choice, but there was too much work to do.

  Strajowskie stood. “Their eyeballs are a weak spot. What else do we need to know?”

  “Its other organs are of no consequence. Jabbing the heart only works when the chest cavity is stretched. Wood obviously works. I’d be willing to bet beheading does too.”

  “I wouldn’t wager on that bet,” said a rumbling voice from outside the tent flap.

  Cannopolis was wheeled into the tent by a private. The Human Army general’s hair was disheveled, his face a mess of scabbed scratches that would soon turn to scar tissue. His torso to the collar of his neck—arms included—was casted. His left leg, from the knee to the hip, was also in a cast. His eyes sparkled, though, as the private grunted and pushed the wheelchair toward the staring duo.

  Strajowskie puffed out his chest. “You’re not supposed to be here. That was an order.”

  “You know I can’t honor that order, sir.”

  “How the hell did you even get here?”

  Cannopolis winked. “A certain private pilot.”

  “Goddamnit, Arthur.”

  “No worries, sir. I want to be kicking some vampire ass again, but I’m not an idiot.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  Cannopolis craned his neck around and nodded at the private, who took his leave. “Keith was given the opportunity to do something to help rather than sit on his ass at home. I figured I’d follow suit.”