He searched the ground and scooped up his Ashmore. The monster was on its hands and knees, scrambling to regain its footing. A gap appeared in the scrap armor between its shoulder-blades. Strajowskie aimed. The monster floundered, then stretched its arms in preparation to rise. Strajowskie smiled and pulled the trigger.
The creature arched, screamed, then went limp.
“Knock them down!” he shouted to his soldiers.
A private beside him screamed and blood gushed out of her mouth. She spilled to the ground, clutching her stomach. A regular-looking vampire stepped forward, holding a bloody-tipped bayonet rifle.
The vampire charged Strajowskie. His crossbow clanged against the rifle’s muzzle. He rotated his wrist to swing the weapon away, then front-kicked the vampire’s exposed left side. His foot passed through mist as the vampire transformed everything but its hands, which held the rifle firmly.
It shifted back to solid form. Strajowskie leaned forward, following through with the momentum of his kick. He jabbed the tip of his notched arrow under the vampire’s chin. He fired, stepped back, aimed at the ambling vampire’s chest, and fired again.
The creature turned to mist, again all but its hands. The second arrow blasted through it. The arrow jutting out of its jugular fell to the grass soundlessly. The creature reformed.
It gripped the butt of the bayonet like a tennis racket and swung at the stunned president. He blocked with his tender left forearm. The wooden butt snapped in half. He screamed, shut his eyes to ward off the pain, and opened them anew.
Adrenaline surged through him. He brought his right arm out parallel to the ground, dipped into a squat, shot forward like a shot-putter, and clothes-lined the vampire. It tumbled to the ground. Strajowskie rolled forward into a somersault and flopped onto it.
It turned to mist, and barely-visible droplets encompassed him. Goosebumps blossomed on his exposed skin. He scrambled to his feet, gripped the crossbow with both hands, and waited.
The vampire’s left arm solidified, braced against the ground, and pushed off. It jetted forth, then clutched Strajowskie’s neck. Claws pinched his esophagus through the skin.
Hoping his aim was steadfast, he brought the Ashmore up at an angle by his side and fired four times.
The arrows passed through the misty vampire and rocketed toward the sky. The vampire snickered, solidified in entirety, and dug its claws into the president’s skin.
The four arrows descended as the first trickle of blood rolled down Strajowskie’s neck. They burrowed deep into the vampire’s skull with mucky thucks. It released its hold.
Strajowskie shoved it away and reached for a shuriken. But there were no more in his waistband. He cursed and brought the Ashmore out before him. The mist vampire knocked it aside. It sidestepped his feeble forward rush and tripped him. He flew to the ground. Black dots swirled before his vision. Dizzy and gasping, he glimpsed an object at the mist vampire’s feet.
Strajowskie reached out and grabbed the item. He hopped to his feet and stabbed. The jagged wooden bayonet butt slid through the vampire’s chest.
Unlike most vampires he’d ever killed, it smiled at him before bursting into ash.
***
Hammers sneered. Strajowskie had bested two of his most unique soldiers in minutes. He hadn’t gotten older with age.
He reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a bone hanging from a string of twine. He brought the self-carved whistle to his lips. He had his orders. Keep the humans busy for several weeks. Buy Barnaby some time.
Too easy.
He blew the silent whistle three times, turned to the east, and strolled down the bluff.
***
Strajowskie reached the summit of the bluff, limping, urging his soldiers to push ahead. They did so without argument, heaving the giant beasts and regular-looking vampires aside. Strajowskie glanced up the grassy slope. The ominous shadow disappeared from view. He heard footsteps and turned, expecting a vampire to have broken through the ring behind him.
But nothing had gotten through the barrier. Instead, the ring had tightened around him. He peered over a soldier’s shoulder.
Halfway across the open expanse of the western plains, every vampire from the battlefield rushed toward them.
Strajowskie glanced at several nearby fallen armored beasts, pushed his way through the soldiers, then gripped his machete and loomed over one still body. He raised the machete above his head and brought it down, hacking through the thick cord that held the makeshift body armor together. He bent low, maneuvered the body, and stole the armor.
He wheeled about and held up the spoils. “Wall formation! It’s the only defense we have!”
His protectors jumped into action. Within minutes, they cleaned every carcass in the vicinity and rushed into formation, no weapons at hand. The shorter soldiers dropped to their knees and held their shields before them. The taller ones stood behind them, holding their shields above their kneeling comrades, creating a metallic barrier. Strajowskie stood amongst the tallest, bearing his own impromptu shield.
Footfalls mingled together. The ground shook as if angered. The clamor became deafening, and then the first of the racing vampires struck their shields. Strajowskie gritted his teeth against the strain and risked a glance to his left.
Bodies raced past, all eyes to the east. The plowing bodies bleated into their defensive wall, driving it back millimeter by millimeter. Strajowskie’s right hamstring quivered. He dug the heel of his foot into the plain, meeting resistance. The soil was plush yet firm. Perhaps they could hold on until the swarm passed.
But several minutes later, his soldiers gave out. Strajowskie faltered in the ensuing tangle of bodies, then fell beneath the masses. He held his shield close, covering himself from ribs to face. Most bodies that trampled onto him were lithe, hardly pressing down when lifting off to pounce anew. Some, however, bounded onto him as if he were a rock. They perched, crushing him momentarily, then leapt away.
One such heavy creature landed atop his shield and it drilled into his head. He heard a dull ting, and then everything darkened.
Chapter 30
Strajowskie awoke and remained still. His forehead ached, but otherwise he felt fine. The ground no longer shook, footfalls no longer rambling. He heaved the shield off himself and sat up.
The other soldiers were all dead, trampled, shields astray. One stared with lifeless eyes, blood still trickling out of his mouth. His head and upper torso were still intact. Everything below that was squashed into the ground, a mess of raw gore.
Strajowskie stood, withdrew his mini-Ashmore, and limped down the bluff. His soldiers had done their jobs, to the end. He couldn’t have asked for more. He stared forward, not risking a glance behind. The memory would suffice.
He’d known Hammers would flee. Such a brute, yet sometimes downright cowardly. And predictable. He would attack before sunset the following day, not when it was dark. The beasts could wreak havoc all day long, but Hammers was smart. He’d let his soldiers rest, then strike several hours before the remainder of the hordes could frolic onto the moonlit battlefield. Strajowskie was certain of it.
Hammers likely thought him predictable as well. He used to be, before becoming president. That title had made him see things from different perspectives. He’d played into his predictable image, only to lead Hammers on.
There was no way the Undead general could predict what Strajowskie had in store.
He stopped on the eastern side of the main battlefield, ten minutes from the encampment. The moon cast an ominous reddish hue over the horrific scene. Bodies littered the ground, strewn about like dandelions blown in the wind. There were beasts, humans, unrecognizable masses, piles of ash. Weaponry lay amidst the tangle of body parts, covered in blood, some broken, splintered to pieces.
Something glinted and caught his attention. He stooped to pick up a Glock 9mm handgun and recalled the bayonet-wielding mist vampire. He’d thought the gunfire battle weeks prior had been a mer
e distraction for some grander scheme. Had he been wrong? Were the Undead planning to use modern warfare indefinitely?
It smelled like a final act of desperation. Like they were preparing for something huge and needed the human race to dwindle away. Or maybe they were using weaponry to keep their own numbers from dwindling.
The ruminations scattered as figures emerged, scrambling over dead bodies fifty feet away. Strajowskie tensed and wrapped his finger on the trigger of his Ashmore. He yearned for a cozy cot and didn’t want to fight anymore that night. But he would if he had to.
The figures picked their way over fallen victims. Were they wild vampire scavengers searching for spoils from their enlisted brethren? Were they his own scouts and scavengers sent to locate the injured and proffer provisions from the battlefield?
Only one way to find out. “Hello!”
The figures paused. Shadows engulfed them.
“Commander-In-Chief Strajowskie. State your business,” he called into the still night.
Whistles rang out. More figures emerged from the carnage. Strajowskie gripped his Ashmore tighter as the shadowy strangers approached. Moonlight washed over the foremost of the figures.
Strajowskie sighed and lowered his crossbow. Human Army fatigues. A familiar rank: The same colonel who had called the pilot.
The figure saluted. “Sir, Colonel Drake, sir.”
Strajowskie shook his head. He’d never had patience for the formalities of military etiquette. “At ease. I assume you delivered my message?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Any luck with survivors?”
“You’re the first one, Mr. President.”
“I figured as much,” Strajowskie said, unsurprised.
“Mr. President, we thought you were KIA, sir.” Colonel Drake gulped. “Permission to speak freely?”
“Granted.”
“With all due respect, Mr. President, you shouldn’t be on the battlefield. Even without Cannopolis here to command, it isn’t your duty to lead. Not here. Rushing into the middle of their ranks in a suicidal mission was not the most rational idea either.”
“That was a little too freely,” Strajowskie replied in a hushed tone. He furrowed his brow. “Do you doubt my abilities?”
“Not at all, sir. I know about your past service, and I witnessed you in action earlier,” the colonel said. “But if something were to happen to you here on the battlefield, all of humanity would suffer.”
An entire race, in his hands. The burden had always been there, since he had sworn into office, but it had never been so palpable.
Strajowskie nodded. “Understood. But I don’t agree with you. I’m needed here now more than ever.”
The remaining soldiers gathered about the conversing duo, oblivious to the implications the young colonel had brought to light. Humanity rested in the hands of an ex-military general who would use whatever means to destroy the enemy, even at the risk of his own life. Which could very well leave a nation without a leader. However, there were capable people left in the world to fill his void should the time ever come.
Strajowskie hoped it wasn’t anytime soon.
“While you’re out here, might as well grab any weapons or ammunition you can find,” he said. “I’ll send a battalion out to help you.”
“Mr. President, we can handle it.”
Strajowskie smirked. “No, you can’t. That’s not all you’re going to be gathering tonight.”
***
Strajowskie arose from his cot. Groggy and sore, he stumbled to the tent flap.
The middle of the camp was deserted. Snores filled the air, along with chirping birds. Gusts of cool wind swept through the encampment. He pulled his robe tighter, upset that he’d slept so long. The sun was almost overhead, its bright rays stretching over the grassy horizon.
He stepped out and strolled along. Guards saluted as he passed. He nodded in return, mouth closed, breathing the scents in. The wind had stoked blazing fires through the night, and the sweet aroma of burnt wood and tall grass danced upon the gusts.
The Midwest received such droll opinions, but he’d always found it to be a beautiful, warming environment.
When at last he reached the outer eastern perimeter, he smiled. The soldiers had accomplished their goal.
“Mr. President.” Colonel Drake jogged out of a small group gathered near the front posts. The inhabitants of the circle drank from a shared mug. They dispersed upon sighting the President, scampering into the main encampment.
Drake saluted, then stood at attention.
Strajowskie grimaced.
“I gathered two more battalions to ensure enough for the first ten lines, sir.”
Strajowskie smiled. “Why are you only a colonel?”
“I’ve been told I speak too freely.”
The President chuckled. “So I’ve heard.” Drake was of normal stature, not very muscular, but his solid character compensated for his lack of bulk. Strajowskie liked him. He reminded him of Brian: Intelligent, independent, someone who demanded respect. He’d followed new orders even when he hadn’t understood them. That earned him more than a modicum of admiration.
“Mr. President, sorry for being so blunt, but I didn’t come to chat. I just informed my men to wake everyone up.”
“What now?”
“A quarter of a mile out. The entire force, like yesterday.”
Son of a bitch. Hammers had outsmarted him after all. The witty bastard was attacking at noon, not sunset. Strajowskie choked off panic before it could throttle his nerves. He’d never faced a situation he couldn’t adapt to. “Good call. Pass out the Kevlar.”
“Done, sir,” Drake said, saluting.
Strajowskie paused. The colonel’s eyes were bloodshot. “How much sleep did you get last night?”
“Zero hours, sir.”
“And the night before?”
“Graveyard sentry.”
“When we get through this—and I assure you, we will—I want you to look me up, colonel. I’ll ensure you and your family are well taken care of.”
“Thank you, Mr. President.”
“And stop with the goddamned pleasantries when we’re alone.”
Soldiers burst from the encampment, pulling clothing and boots on as they rushed past. Drake barked orders to grab enough Kevlar to cover in a squat. They all followed without hesitation.
“I have one more thing to ask of you. For now,” Strajowskie said above the din of hastening soldiers. “I need you to make a call again. The plan has changed. We need it now. Do you still have the number?”
Drake tapped his head.
Strajowskie took his leave and walked back to his tent.
He’d underestimated Hammers, but Hammers still didn’t know what was in store.
***
“He hasn’t returned yet.” Brian waltzed through the circular tower. “And it’s still too early to visit Father Stephenson.”
Ruby stepped up to him and draped an arm around his neck. Her white blouse and tight leather mini-skirt did much more to accentuate her curves than the drab, grey sweat pants that had become her normal attire. “Well, he did say it would be longer than an overnight tryst. You have work to do, oh brilliant scientist. Hop to it.”
“I do, don’t I?”
She pulled away and batted her eyelashes. Emotions stirred within him, yet he remained rooted. They had kissed and hugged and caressed, but that’s as far as he could allow. Though he didn’t like the idea of being an immortal abstinence aficionado, lust was beyond the realm of the Undead. He held Barnaby’s decree that human-Undead copulation was downright forbidden in highest regards.
Though, with the newfound information Keith had shared and through his own assumptions, he could rule out Barnaby’s philosophies as deceitful rants.
They entered the laboratory. Ruby set the stack of folders and notebooks on a countertop, then meandered around the room.
“Rather extravagant for an Undead who rarely remains in his own resid
ence,” she remarked.
Brian folded his arms over his chest and smiled. Wolves yipped, birds cawed, gorillas grunted. The smell of feces and urine overwhelmed his senses, but he doubted they even tickled Ruby’s nostrils with their horrendous scent. If his work progressed past one day, he’d have to find a surgical mask to keep the odor from driving him away.
And of course, it would take longer than a day. A decade of research couldn’t be dissected in one mere day, immortal or not. Though he didn’t need to sleep during the daytime like his vampire cousins, sleep regenerated his body and mind much like drinking blood did. Eventually he would need to rest.
He shrugged. Weeks, months, years. They mattered little to him anymore.
A flash of respite tugged at him. He glanced at Ruby, who touched the iron bars of a gorilla’s cage. Amazement and curiosity sparkled in her blue eyes, and his guilt tugged harder.
Ruby didn’t have weeks, months, or years to wait for him. The human race didn’t either. And if Keith was correct, then Barnaby had many dark secrets. That dwindled available time down considerably.
Brian sat down on a stool and flipped his notebook open. Time to get reacquainted with his own work before delving into it. After every flick of the page, he glanced at Ruby, watching her movements, her radiating wonderment and innocence.
The pages turned faster.
***
“Something has come up that requires his undivided attention elsewhere.”
“Won’t more sentries be posted in his absence, Ashmore?”
John stared into Vince’s white eyes and withheld from scoffing. The Master feared nothing in his own kingdom. Haven was untouchable. The humans dared not bring the battle overseas, to a terrain better suited for the wily society of Undead. Plus, the Master was too egotistical to allow his personal garrison to be amplified in his absence. “No. It’d draw more alarm than it’s worth.”
Gunther smiled behind Vince, his rows of shark-sharp teeth glinting in the moonlight. “So now’s the time t’get ‘em.”
“What of our original deal? We have yet to receive what was promised, and, sadly, our stock has run out.” Vince leaned close and whispered, “Without your surrogate father here to wipe your ass and hold your hand, I think we could arrange a feast. If our demands aren’t met, anyway,” he said, leaning back once more. “We want double.”
The Human-Undead War Trilogy (Book 1): Dark Intentions Page 22
