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

by Jonathan Edwardk Ondrashek

  Clever son of a bitch.

  Hammers hopped out of his crevice and raced down the eastern side of the bluff. Smoke billowed off his skin as sunrays assaulted him. He pondered blowing his whistle and pulling his soldiers in. But, as comforting shade enveloped him, he recanted the idea. For now, his soldiers could remain or flee, depending on their character. He cared not.

  Let the humans believe they had won. Let them rejoice in triumph. Let them catch a brief moment of respite from the war.

  When Barnaby returned, the world would be a living Hell for all of them.

  Chapter 32

  “Order the archers to fire farther out in range. They’re killing us more than them,” Strajowskie said. “And make sure they’re well-equipped. If their arrows do no good, they join the fray. This is a different kind of war.”

  “Done.” Drake glanced at the sudden rush of soldiers filtering around them. “That cement mix was a brilliant idea.”

  “Scientists aren’t the only ones who understand elements and compounds. Now, enough dilly-dallying. Let’s get these guys moving. We have ground to cover.”

  Drake saluted and darted off. Strajowskie turned to the battlefield and breathed in the fresh afternoon breeze. All around, soldiers plowed their shields into cemented vampires, reducing them to dust and rubble. The giant beasts had fled. The human front line pushed forward, claiming the land to the bluff where he’d spotted Hammers the night before.

  No living vampires remained on the plains.

  He whipped a shuriken at a cemented vampire and smiled as its wide-mouthed face was obliterated.

  “What are these things?” a familiar voice asked.

  “Motherfuckers that can turn to mist. Immune to sunlight as well. They’re a royal pain in the ass to fight.” The president turned to greet a haggard Keith. He looked older, his hairline receded to the tips of his ears. Strajowskie had never seen his hairline before; Keith kept his head smoother than a polished doorknob. Now he knew why. “What took so damn long to release the mix?”

  “Technical difficulties.” Keith scrunched up his face. “Mist, huh? The cement makes sense now. You can pass through them?”

  The president nodded.

  “And they could probably pass through anything as well?”

  Strajowskie nodded again.

  “Like the walls at the URC?”

  Strajowskie raised an eyebrow. The inquisitive kid was on to something. They’d all believed it was an inside job, but maybe the kidnapper had just bypassed security and waltzed through the walls, traversing the halls at leisure. The idea made him uneasy.

  “Cannopolis is wheeling around, getting the soldiers in order. Against your wishes, of course.”

  “He’s stubborn, like me. Like you. I suppose I can humor him for now.” Strajowskie nodded as several soldiers passed by, saluting in haste. “So, Junction City is what I’ve heard?”

  Keith nodded. “The two bluffs on the western edge of the city. Cannopolis said you’d remember the spot. A full day’s march, but I believe it’ll be a great vantage point.”

  “The soldiers are already heading out. You don’t hear me arguing, do you?”

  “Actually, no.”

  The president eyed Keith and smiled, shaking his head. “This wouldn’t be a good time to bring up Brian and his damned mushroom.” He walked past Keith, heading toward the main camp to gather his belongings.

  Keith fell into step beside him and gulped. “Um, yeah, about Brian…” he began.

  ***

  Brian tossed the notebook onto the countertop. The animals were wide awake, yet eerie silence bombarded him. He missed Ruby’s presence. She had retired to their bedchamber, weary from travelling. Although she’d been silent, studying the animals in her innocent ways while he’d pored over his notes, he missed her proximity.

  He paced before the gorilla cage and swept his hair out of his eyes. His notes were decipherable, yet he couldn’t understand what went wrong with Keith’s experiment.

  Brian had purposely lobbied the president to allow volunteers to work on. He’d understood the human element of the process could prove fatal and had avoided re-performing the experiment on himself. He hadn’t wanted to die for his own work. Would anyone else want to, with the outcome unknown? Would they meet a similar fate to Keith’s?

  Or worse?

  Brian rushed to the center island and fumbled through the countertop drawers, pulling forth some gauze, a needle and syringe, a tourniquet. He wrenched open a metallic transport box and pulled out a preserved Morel mushroom.

  He needed an engine that wouldn’t die.

  It was time to see if the experiment worked on vampires.

  ***

  “Archers here,” Strajowskie said, pointing at the map spread on the table before them, “and here. When the initial wave of Undead begin their ascent, the archers retreat to these points,” he continued, pointing anew. “Here, we’ll have an uphill advantage against the beasts. Our largest battalions of armored infantry will be here, at the top of the bluffs, with triangular formations running downhill, to the ravine here. A small force will be stationed inside the passage, drawing the Undead in to this.” He held up a picture of a giant six-barreled cannon.

  “What the hell is that?” Keith asked.

  Strajowskie gave the picture to Keith. It passed hands until it was once again in his possession. He held it up, then dropped it. It floated onto the map.

  “Our good friends at Ashmore, Incorporated have been working on this for several months. A new take on the M61 Vulcan. They’re calling it the Ashmore X41 Vulcan Canon. Six barrels. Electronic push-button firing mechanism. Canister shots, each containing fifty oak-tipped metal arrows. Insert a canister, and automatic loading systems lock it down into the barrel in about ten seconds. Once the operator pushes this button here,” he said, pointing at the item on the picture, “the barrels spin like a revolver cylinder.”

  Keith let out a low whistle. “A Gatling gun revolver canon. Sick.”

  Strajowskie beamed. “Takes ten seconds to spin the cylinder. The canister explodes upon exit and the arrows shoot out in a circular spray, the diameter of which is approximately twenty feet. Most devastating effects occur within fifty feet.

  “It can leave a large untouched gap in the center of your target area, though, so we’ll need to dig a pit in front of the canon. We’ll have to duck into it when the canon is fired, and then charge back out and defend during reload. Timing will be critical. We won’t have enough time to reload all six barrels each time, so we’ll reload after each shot.

  “Ten seconds to load the canister, ten seconds to spin to the next barrel, twenty total seconds to push them back before firing again. We can’t give them an inch of ground. There’s only one prototype and about 300 canisters. If it fails or we run out of ammunition, we’ve got our handhelds. We’ve got the cement. At worst, we resort to our usual methods. And there’ll be a retreat route, should it be necessary.” Strajowskie smiled at the small gathering. “Rife with traps and pitfalls, of course.”

  “How do you know they won’t come around the bluffs and flank us?” Cannopolis asked.

  “Lester will herd them to us. If we make the plane visible, they’ll go where we want them to go.”

  Cannopolis snorted. “Hammers won’t allow us to shepherd him.”

  “You know him as well as I do. He won’t overlook the damage we did today. He’ll avoid the plane.”

  Cannopolis leaned in his wheelchair. “Maybe he’ll wise up and bring the regulars back to the front line. If the mist vampires are in the rear, the plane won’t matter.”

  “He won’t,” Strajowskie answered, convincing himself more than anyone else. “He’ll keep his most formidable soldiers in the front. Maybe more regulars in the mix, but not much. We all know the mist vampires are the hardest to combat. Hammers realizes this, as well. His predictability will be his demise.”

  “Why are you so focused on Hammers?”

  He glared at
Cannopolis. “I could dance around, hit them in the temples and kidneys, cripple them momentarily. But I’m done trudging through this war year after year. This ends now.” Strajowskie leaned close. “I’m going for the jugular.”

  Cannopolis didn’t reply. The other members of the gathering fidgeted. Strajowskie sized his trusted comrade up and down. Was Cannopolis trying to infer a personal vendetta? His general should be listening to his plans, not questioning his integrity and proven battle techniques.

  His anger surfaced. “You’re starting to think like your old buddy.”

  “What the fuck does that mean?”

  “Perhaps your recent injuries and overabundant free time is making you rethink mortality.”

  “You pompous son of a bitch. You think killing their general ends everything?”

  Keith tried to interject. “Um, guys, can we—”

  The president held his hand up to silence him. He was done with his orders receiving constant badgering barrages. “Grand delusions of peace and harmony have no place on the battlefield.”

  “This is war. Blah blah blah. I’ve heard it all before. Even now, you look for a way to win this argument without thinking of an alternate solution.” Cannopolis furrowed his brow. “Your tactics are sound, far more innovative than my own. But they’re harsher. You’re out to slaughter them.

  “You once viewed me as more than a brother-at-arms. Hammers as well. Have you forgotten that?”

  Strajowskie narrowed his eyes. “What do you want me to do, Arthur? Wave a pretty white flag? Run and hide?”

  “Move a little slower. Hit their kidneys. Break their collar-bones. But don’t go for the jugular. Yet.”

  Strajowskie hesitated. He looked from Cannopolis to Keith, to Drake and the other officers. They all regarded him with wondering eyes, tension lining their features. Did they all think, like Cannopolis, that he was too gung-ho in his mission?

  “Give Brian more time,” Keith muttered.

  Strajowskie guffawed and feigned wiping tears from his eyes. “That’s what this is about? Buy some time for a fucking vampire?”

  No one answered. Keith and Cannopolis scrunched their faces in shock. Strajowskie glanced at his map, gritting his teeth. He shook his head. He could end the war, couldn’t they see that?

  He glanced at each face. No respect was mirrored in their features. No fear, either. Disgust only.

  Like he was some kind of monster.

  “Fine. Fine!” he said, throwing his hands up in surrender. “But I swear, Keith, if we lose more soldiers over this lame-brained idea, it’s your ass!”

  He jabbed at the map. “Two days to get to the pass. We can place our front line to the east of the bluffs for several days on top of that, hold the bastards off the good old-fashioned way. One week from today, no more pussy-footin’: We retreat behind the bluffs and set these actions into motion.”

  Several sighs echoed in the cramped tent.

  “I can’t believe I’m listening to this bullshit,” Strajowskie muttered.

  “You should’ve seen Cannopolis when he saw Brian,” Keith said.

  Strajowskie smiled in spite of the emotions roiling through him. “Manera, this better not be in vain. One week is all the time I can buy. After that, I end this fucking war my way.”

  He turned to Cannopolis and Drake and nodded. “Tear down the entire camp. We move out immediately.”

  The general, the colonel, and the other officers saluted and bustled out of the tent, followed by Keith.

  Strajowskie stopped picking items off the table. The tent was quiet. It was the first solitude he’d had in weeks. He sat on a stool at the table and cradled his head in his hands, doubts breathing softly on the nape of his neck.

  Cannopolis was right. Hammers was like a son.

  And in his personal quest to end the war, Strajowskie had forgotten that.

  ***

  Hammers stretched and groaned. The sound echoed throughout the underground series of caves, rattling loose dirt from the ceiling. The sun had set. A good time to hunt down human fodder.

  One of his scouts—a private named Roterie—bustled through the entrance to the cave and saluted. The youngster had wild black hair, eyes the color of lightning, a square nose and chin. Couldn’t have been more than sixteen when he’d been turned.

  “Sir, the Human Army has moved.”

  Hammers folded his arms across his chest. “And?”

  “They’re heading southwest. Coordinates unknown.”

  Hammers nodded, then waved the scout away. He ambled to the cave entrance. A coyote yipped in the distance.

  “What are you up to now, old man?” he whispered, lost in the light of the rising moon.

  Chapter 33

  The vein had collapsed again. The other pinpricks dotting his skin had healed over already. Brian grunted and threw the syringe. It clattered atop a pile of dozens more syringes on the countertop. He’d spent several boxes of them, all with the same conclusion: His veins wouldn’t remain open long enough to extract his own blood for a sample, let alone allow him to be hooked to a dialysis machine.

  A full day had passed, yet his growing frustrations had compelled him to continue trying. Without sleep or feeding. Even when Ruby had returned that morning and evening, he’d insisted he be left alone to try again. And again.

  He’d considered going out into the square to find some hapless drunkard Undead who could be coaxed into becoming a lab-rat. But that, too, would be pointless. The experiment wouldn’t work on vampires. It didn’t work on Keith. It probably wouldn’t work on other humans either.

  It had only worked on Brian, when he’d been human.

  He sat on a stool and massaged his temples, wishing for a reprieve from his frustration. He stared at a flawless marble countertop across the room. Jars of specimens resting beneath stainless steel cupboards caught his eye. He stopped massaging and willed his sight to focus and sharpen until each item inside the jars was right before him.

  The first jar contained a fetus. Primate, hairless, sightless. He couldn’t discern if it was human or vampire. But Barnaby had stated that bearing children as a vampire was impossible and would be an abomination, so Brian assumed it was human.

  The next jar had no label and contained a white powdery substance. Brian induced his extra-strength sense of smell but was unable to define any specific scent amidst the aromas of animal urine and feces. Powder in a scientist’s laboratory could be anything: Deadly, harmless, illegal. It was best to pass it up and leave it alone.

  He peered at the third one and paused. Leeches. A handful of them in liquid, floating.

  He blinked. Did one just move?

  Brian stood and sped to the jar. The leeches slithered anew. The liquid wasn’t clear like water; it had a yellow-green tint. He reached out tentatively and raised the jar to his face, then popped the lid and inhaled.

  The jar crashed to the floor. Brian staggered, shielding his sensitive nostrils. Leeches flopped around. Formaldehyde solution splattered equipment, his shoes, his pants. He hesitated, staring at the leeches. They couldn’t survive in formalin.

  They had to be Undead.

  He let out an exasperated “Huh!” and fumbled with several drawers and cabinets, trying to locate some towels. The stench was overwhelming. He thought about rushing out of the room but dared not leave the hapless Undead leeches lay about to wither away. Though they were simple creatures and their deaths would affect him not, he was intrigued. He paused in his search for cleaning supplies and observed one of the flopping parasites.

  They had to be a vampire breed. Did they function the opposite of their living counterparts? Did they leech blood away and inflict harm, or did they function like normal, by repairing and helping blood flow?

  He finally found a bundle of plain white hand towels and wiped up all the formaldehyde solution, using his vampire speed to quicken the process. Within seconds, all the liquid was gone, all the glass disposed of, and the leeches were scooped up and placed ont
o a countertop. He located an empty mason jar but couldn’t find any more formalin.

  He picked up the leeches and placed them into the new jar. As he touched the final one, it latched onto his thumb violently. Tiny fangs slid into his flesh. He shook his hand, but the little bloodsucker was latched on tight. It quivered and squirmed, taking its meal.

  Then the fattened creature slid off his finger, fell to the countertop, and burst into ash.

  Brian scrunched his face up and swept the ashes with a towel. The leeches couldn’t survive off his blood. The platelet mushroom had only worked with his blood. It could create, it could destroy. What was it about his blood? What made it so damned special?

  His mouth dropped and he paused in mid-wipe. That’s it. Holy shit, that’s it!

  He finished cleaning up his mess, found a few ounces of formaldehyde solution in a supply cabinet, filled up the leech jar, and rushed back to his room.

  He burst through the hidden entrance. Ruby slept on her bed, covered to her neck by a thin sheet. He zipped over to her and nudged her awake.

  She rubbed her eyes and sat up. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  “I’ve been going about it all wrong. It’s always been about me.”

  Ruby stood and looped her arms about his neck. Brilliant moonlight shone upon her smooth skin. She smirked and swiped at the hair on his forehead. “A little brass.”

  Brian leaned until their noses touched. It was difficult for him to rein in his excitement. It’d been right in front of him all along. He kissed Ruby, the winds of elation on his back. “We need to make another trip. I’ll explain everything on the way there. And if we hurry, I’ll take you to the finest diner Los Angeles offers.”

  “Los Angeles?”

  He grasped her hand, interlacing their fingers. “All of my human medical documentation is there.”

  ***

  “Tonight, Ashmore. I want them tonight,” Vincent said.

  “Hammers knows he is gone. I can’t convince him to send additional humans in the Master’s absence.”