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

by Jonathan Edwardk Ondrashek

  “I think you should do what you planned on doing all along. You justified your transformation with being able to live forever and complete your work. But you haven’t even talked about it since that night. Fresh eyes could open new doors, you know.”

  The platelet mushroom. It seemed so foreign an idea. Instant doubts of its success crept in. He couldn’t fathom beginning from scratch on the creation he’d doled over for nearly a decade. But perhaps it was time to take up his old experiments. He could use his new abilities to aide him. Microscopes wouldn’t be needed anymore, and his newfound speed could accelerate lengthy procedures.

  He thought then of Keith, Strajowskie, Cannopolis, the URC. The memories were cloudy, as if it’d been centuries since he’d conjured them. He missed his friends and his job.

  He bolted upright in bed.

  “Are you okay?”

  He nodded and gripped both of her hands, pulling her close, attempting to rein in his exhilaration. “How about we take a trip ourselves?”

  ***

  Strajowskie rammed the nose of his Ashmore into the creature’s right eye. He pulled the trigger once, kicked the beast square in its chest, then shot it twice more. It pitched forward, eyes rolled back, serpentine tongue lolling out of its mouth. He jumped backward. The creature crashed to the ground at his feet.

  He turned away from the front line. “Find higher ground!”

  Soldiers scattered. Behind them, wild fires raged, caused by dishevelled cooking pits that hadn’t been extinguished before the attack began. He watched as the lab tent went up in a gigantic ball of flames, accelerated by the chemicals housed inside. He was glad he’d sent Keith and Cannopolis on their way two hours earlier. They wouldn’t have survived.

  A loud screech like that of a prehistoric pterodactyl brought his attention to the perimeter once more. Five of the hulking Franken-vamps charged the lines, bowling over soldiers and squashing them into the dry plains. The sons of bitches were suited for war: They were donned in remnants of Kevlar that had been pieced together to protect and fit them.

  Ten soldiers formed a triangle in front of the advancing group of armored beasts. Before they could brandish their weapons, they were all dead, chopped down by razor claws. Blood stained grass in all directions, spots that darkened as the sun slipped over the western horizon. Moments later, the final vestiges of sunlight disappeared altogether.

  And then every beast in sight turned and ran to the east.

  The soldiers within Strajowskie’s vicinity stared in awe. Their weapons lowered as much from fatigue as from relief.

  But Strajowskie trusted his instincts. They hadn’t fled in defeat. Something was amiss.

  “Hold the lines!” Strajowskie shouted in the near silence. “Fifty deep on the perimeter! Triangular formations behind that, with long-range archers to follow!”

  As the orders were repeated up and down the line, shouts erupted from the center of the encampment. Ten of the beasts suddenly bounded over the front line in one leap, landing outside the perimeter. They sprinted away, eastbound, their heavy panting echoing in the quiet plains.

  Cheers erupted, but Strajowskie couldn’t shake the feeling that something wasn’t right. He shushed everyone within proximity. Chirping crickets and crackling flames provided an eerie dusk chorus. The soldiers gripped their Ashmores and machetes and makeshift table-leg spikes.

  The plains shook. A tiny quake at first, then a steady rumble. The Human Army held their collective breaths as the thundering noise grew and then engulfed them.

  From the east, countless silhouettes spilled forth onto the plains. Hungry, venomous shrieks rent the air and mingled with the rumbling.

  It appeared as if the entire vampire race was speeding toward them.

  Chapter 27

  A throng of vampires rushed the front line. Beasts in their midst led the way. Strajowskie glimpsed an unmistakable figure at the center of the first wave that reached the perimeter, but the figure was quickly lost in the confusion.

  Vampires plowed into the first line of humans like battering rams. Ashmores fired and machetes sliced. Makeshift stakes stabbed out. Limbs raked and clawed. Blood-curdling screams added to the cacophony of thunderous noise that had split the silence of approaching nightfall.

  A triangle of humans formed before Strajowskie and a dozen long-range archers—with archaic compound longbows—stepped up behind him. He reached to his hip and pulled his machete from its sheath. He then placed the butt of his full-sized Ashmore into the crock of his armpit.

  The massive wave of Undead wouldn’t allow for only one weapon.

  The soldiers in front of him buckled as if a vehicle had been driven through their center. Strajowskie scowled as one of the Franken-vamps dismantled their defensive formation. After watching them run like cowards, he had hoped they’d retreat to the rear of their vampire horde.

  No such luck.

  The beast ripped through three soldiers with one open-clawed punch, picked the three dying bodies up with ease, and tossed them into the sea of struggling humans. Strajowskie raised his machete and lunged at the beast. The blade sank into its stomach. It bellowed and swung high.

  Strajowskie ducked its wild blow and pulled the machete free. Then he fired his crossbow. The beast sidestepped and the arrow plunged into the back of a human soldier, who flailed and bumped into the beast. With the momentary distraction, Strajowskie extended his arm and brought it around in an arc parallel to the plains. He swung with all of the force he could muster, head-high. The blade sliced through the beast’s neck in one fell swoop. Its head rolled to the ground, eyes fixated upon Strajowskie. Its mouth curled into a smile.

  The headless body snatched the head from the ground and lifted it up to rest upon its stump. There was a wet sucking noise, like that of water draining out of a bathtub.

  Then the beast was standing before him once more, whole.

  Strajowskie shuddered. Cannopolis was right. Beheading didn’t work.

  The creature punched him in the chest. The force knocked him off-balance, but he swiftly regained his composure and sliced the machete to ward off forthcoming blows. The creature cringed at the parries. Strajowskie capitalized, stepping in close. Its fetid, stifling breath reeked of rotting carcass. Somehow he ignored the smell and raised his Ashmore until the tip of the notched arrow jabbed the flesh of its throat. He fired twice. The head of the beast reared back, two punctures gushing black blood.

  The creature swung and connected with the president’s jaw. Strajowskie stumbled into one of the long-range archers behind him, his machete at his side. He heard a startled gasp, the familiar twing of an arrow being loosed. The arrow burrowed into the chest of the enraged, flailing beast. It slumped to the ground. Soldiers trampled it underfoot as they rushed forward to fend off the next one.

  Strajowskie whirled around to thank the archer for saving him. The soldier lay dying on the plain. Strajowskie cursed. His machete blade had been angled behind him. During his stumble, the soldier had inadvertently been stabbed near her groin.

  Strajowskie bent low and found her hand. She gasped for breath. Blood droplets flew out of her parched lips. They stared at each other for a brief moment. Then her body went limp. Strajowskie grimaced and closed her eyelids. Though it’d been an accident, he was pissed for not being more aware of his surroundings.

  Bodies pressed closer, stifling him, making him feel like a caged animal.

  He stood and uttered a deafening roar. Then he fired his Ashmore blindly. Arrows sprayed in an arc until his crossbow clicked, the ammunition depleted. Dozens of vampires fell before him like tall-grass laid down by a gust of wind.

  Troops stopped parrying enemies to behold their enraged leader. Then they roared in gusto as well and renewed their counterattack. Undead fell in droves as the rallied humans hacked and stabbed. Arrows rained down from above. Blood and ash and body parts pelted everyone with droplets and gore.

  A soldier in front of Strajowskie was gutted and fell to the g
round. The long-haired Undead responsible met Strajowskie’s cold gaze. It turned to run. Strajowskie dropped his Ashmore, reached out, and grabbed a fistful of its hair. He yanked backward and pulled the machete across the vampire’s exposed throat. Blood gushed, coating the blade of the machete in a dark scarlet ooze. He yanked harder and sliced through the final strands of skin that held the vampire together.

  An Undead leapt above the masses, angled in a flying kick intended for Strajowskie’s forehead. The president saw the movement in his peripheral vision and brought both arms up to block the blow. The Undead collided with him. They both stumbled. He couldn’t bring his machete to bear before the Undead regained its composure and raked at him with clawed hands.

  Strajowskie screamed. The claws seared his cheek and his eyesight blurred from forced tears. He tossed the machete into the air and caught the handle as it fell, the blade pointing down. He then hit the Undead attacker with a right uppercut, enforced by the machete’s hilt. As his fist connected, he slid it out and to the left. The blade sliced the Undead’s throat before it could register the uppercut itself.

  Strajowskie stepped back and kicked up. The tip of his boot cracked into the Undead’s jaw. Its head detached and plopped onto the assembled masses behind it.

  He snatched up his Ashmore and nudged it into his back holster, then slid his machete into its sheath. He wallowed through body parts and blood-slickened patches of grass until he was on the perimeter of the front line. The Undead tore chunks out of the human defense. Wave after wave, chunk after chunk. Thousands more vampires poured out from the fog on the eastern horizon, destroying any hope of reprieve from the slaughter. Bedraggled soldiers rushed out to meet the newest assault head-on, though Strajowskie didn’t understand what drove them to continue fighting.

  One vampire bee-lined straight for Strajowskie. He didn’t have time to wield his machete, so he cocked back his left fist and punched. The vampire disappeared.

  Sort of.

  Instead of one solid mass, the vampire’s body transformed into a mist-like silhouette. Cold droplets stuck fast to Strajowskie’s hand as it passed through the ethereal creature. He recoiled and stared at his fist. The creature manifested before him, whole again.

  It laughed and socked him in his jaw. Strajowskie swung another hook. Once again, the creature turned to mist before he connected.

  “Fuck,” he murmured as the entire approaching vampire offensive wave turned to mist. His soldiers ran headlong through the formidable wall of Undead, shock evident in their gasps and muttered curse words.

  Ignoring the spectacle, Strajowskie grabbed one of the solo arrows on his chest strap and jabbed at the wily Undead before him. It predictably turned to mist as he connected. But instead of removing his hand, he held it in the center of the mist, clutching the wooden arrow. He squinted, able to vaguely discern the facial features of the vampire. It was like looking in a pond and seeing a murky reflection void of substance.

  He curled his lip and stared into its ethereal eyes. “I can stand here all night. Can you?”

  Its eyes widened, but the creature didn’t attempt to flee. Seconds passed. Strajowskie wondered if his assumption was incorrect.

  Just as he pondered removing his hand, the vampire solidified once more. Its body manifested around his arm, as if Strajowskie was an extension of the vampire itself. He winked at the shocked Undead and pushed his fist deeper into its body.

  The vampire muttered, “Shit.” Then it burst into ash.

  Strajowskie shook the ash from his arm. Soldiers surrounded him again, and for the first time since the battle had begun, no vampires were within reach.

  He’d need a new plan of action. Regular vampires were simple enough to dispose of. The gorilla-snake beasts were stronger opponents, but they too could be killed. The new vaporizing vampires, however, could prove to be difficult indeed. He needed something to help even the odds and ensure these new watery vampires didn’t turn the tide of the war any further.

  Exhausted, he looked to the foggy night sky, sifting through ideas until one took root.

  He pushed his way through the throng of human soldiers until he found an officer. “Colonel!”

  A battle-hardened man much younger than Strajowskie stopped parrying a vampire and clicked his heels together, saluting. His dark complexion appeared ashen in the absence of moonlight. Soldiers rushed to fill his void.

  “Mr. President!”

  Strajowskie shouted to drown out the din of the battle. “You’re going to the camp to get on the horn. I have an urgent message for you to deliver.”

  The colonel nodded. Strajowskie relayed the message and the phone number to call. He made the officer repeat everything to ensure nothing could be misconstrued, then pulled six soldiers aside and ordered them to escort the colonel. He sent them away, withdrew his machete, and turned back to the eerily quiet battle scene. Was it already over?

  The main force of the vampires stood still at the edge of the fog. The giant stretching beasts and mangy wolves stood ready at the forefront of the vampire ranks, a sea of fanged Undead behind them. How many were regular, and how many vaporized? Strajowskie couldn’t tell. They all looked alike, aside from the beasts and their four-legged friends.

  A distinct figure emerged at the center of them all.

  Hammers.

  Their gazes met. It’s come to this then, Strajowskie thought. He sighed, then patted his store of shuriken and his mini-Ashmore. His ammunition was limited. He couldn’t remain on the front line much longer.

  But it didn’t look like he had much of a choice at the moment.

  Human soldiers lined up, creating a wall between the camp and the vampire masses.

  He nodded once in Hammers’ direction and raised his machete high above his head.

  Then he bellowed and sprinted toward the enemy lines. His soldiers took up the battle cry and sped along beside him, racing toward certain doom.

  ***

  Keith zoomed in and out with the satellite feed, circling around entire city blocks before moving onto the next. The city had been abandoned and reduced to rubble. Foundations jutted out of the ground like giant gray bones. Patches of grass grew sporadically, dotting the charred earth and busted pavement. Nothing stirred.

  “Find it yet?” Cannopolis’ wheelchair whirred and pitched forward as he entered Keith’s office.

  “Not yet.” Keith zoomed in on what might have been the business district of the mediocre city when it had been inhabited. A tall stone building overlooked a four-way intersection. Judging from the raggedy décor inside, he guessed it had been a popular dining establishment.

  Cannopolis pulled up beside him. “That was basically the center of town. Maybe another mile or so, straight to the west.”

  Keith zoomed out and entered new coordinates. Two miles west, in case Cannopolis was mistaken. When the satellite reached those coordinates, he zoomed in once again. A driveway with a brick column in the center of it loomed on the screen.

  “East. A couple blocks.”

  Keith maneuvered the satellite as directed, following an old highway route. Finally, they found what they were looking for—A pass through man-carved limestone bluffs. It appeared wide enough for maybe four vehicles to fit through at one time.

  “How’d you know this was here?”

  “When we were stationed at Fort Riley, we’d sometimes take this route out to Milford Lake.” Cannopolis glanced at the ceiling, a warm smile on his rugged face. “Junction City. Strajowskie’ll remember the place. Prone to violence, murder, crime, drugs, much as any other city at that time. But still humble. Familiar. Had some damn good times there.”

  “It’s about fifteen miles south and ten miles west of the main encampment. We’ll have to give up some ground. Think Strajowskie will be okay with that?”

  “He doesn’t have a choice. We’ve been searching for six hours already. It’d take days to find a more suitable location. This’ll have to do.”

  The office door o
pened. Cannopolis’ wheelchair spun about. Keith did likewise, pivoting on the balls of his feet while reaching into the waistband at the small of his back. The mini-Ashmore was reassurance. Though the URC had been under heavier security of late, he wasn’t taking any chances.

  He glanced at his fake arm. Too much crazy shit had already happened there.

  Strajowskie’s pilot, Lester, strode into the room, hands clasped behind his back. Long red curls fell across his forehead, spilling over his ears and onto his shoulders. “Sorry to interrupt, but you got a call from some colonel. Said Strajowskie ordered him to deliver a message. It’s pretty urgent.”

  Keith relaxed and held his hand out.

  Lester stared at his hand. Understanding flickered across his features. “Oh, he left a voicemail about five hours ago. I was asleep. It’s one in the morning, you know.”

  “And?”

  “Thought maybe it was some kind of code or something. He wants me to get a carrier with a cargo hold large enough to house about two tons of MegaKrete Instant-Dri mix. And he wants it dumped on the vampire front line at sundown today.”

  “Did he say why?” Cannopolis asked.

  “Something about fog and vapor. And he wants both of you to ride along when I drop it.”

  MegaKrete mix? The request seemed so odd that Keith was inclined to question if it had been Strajowskie’s order at all.

  But the thought vanished as soon as alarms wailed throughout the facility. Lester winced and covered his ears. Keith stalked past him to the door and looked back. He motioned for both men to remain still, withdrew his mini-crossbow, then stuck his head out and glanced up and down the hallway outside. Red lights illuminated the white walls and the sirens were more pronounced, louder. But it was empty.

  He passed through the doorway, turned left, and cross-stepped down the hallway, back against the wall. His heart pounded. Maybe he should return to his office? At least there it would be safer than being out in the open. He picked his feet up so his steps wouldn’t echo. Though the alarms were deafening, the absence of other noises within the facility made stealth difficult.