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

by Jonathan Edwardk Ondrashek

  Then Drake was beside him, shouting and pointing to the horizon. Strajowskie couldn’t understand him but followed the pointed finger. He shook his head, raised both hands to signal that he’d already seen the strange retreat. Drake gripped his shoulders and shook him, mouthing—shouting—something. Strajowskie strained to hear as the words floated in and out.

  “Air-(something)-umming!—(something)—issued a retreat, sir!”

  He shook his head and gestured to the pink-orange clouds above them. “I didn’t issue a retreat! It’s daylight! It’s over for now!”

  Drake looked to the horizon again, jabbing his finger in the air.

  He obliged the colonel, watched the fleeing vampires. “I’ve already fucking looked! There’s nothing—”

  Suddenly, as far as he could see, Undead marched, perfect lines running beside each other. Some fled while others approached. The first visible wave of approaching Undead was less than a block away.

  Then the approaching vampires disappeared, replaced by shimmering, wavering air.

  The colonel turned and took off in a dead sprint, shouting at everyone. Strajowskie followed suit, albeit at a slower trot. He was still bewildered, pain wracking his entire body. The battle should be over. He should be crawling into the comforts of a hospital cot. His soldiers should be resting. The wounded and dead should be getting tended to. Their ranks should be getting fortified by the battalions stationed at the main encampment near Highway 77.

  Cannopolis, Keith, Lester, and Drake huddled around the bend in Eighth Street, fifty yards from the cannon. Cannopolis pointed at Drake. The colonel nodded and sprinted to the right, down Rucker Road. His Kevlar Dozen appeared as if from nowhere, surrounding him, shouting over the raucous at others. Hasty formations were created. The front line was replenished with refreshed soldiers who’d had the pleasure of sleeping or hiding all night. Hundreds of archers scaled the bluff across from Rucker Road.

  Strajowskie faltered as he neared Cannopolis, Keith, and Lester. He fell to one knee and spit blood onto the broken asphalt. Cannopolis sped toward him, face twisted in concern. Keith and Lester looked jostled, as if they had themselves participated in the night’s battle. In unison, they halted and stared over Strajowskie’s shoulder.

  Dizzy, he stood and spun around, squinting into the rising sunlight.

  As far as could be seen, there were bodies, an undulating ocean of shimmering Undead.

  Chapter 38

  “Are you sure you don’t want to stay for some?” Stella asked, holding up the bag of goat meat.

  Brian didn’t think he could stomach its strong, gamey flavor. He also didn’t like leaving Ruby alone any longer than he needed to with John Ashmore. Though the old man seemed to have come back to his senses, he remained unstable.

  He declined Stella’s invitation and waved at the children gripping her thighs. They averted their gazes and hid behind her. He chuckled and stepped out of the Helping House. The new door he and Ruby had installed shut gently behind him. The deadbolt clicked as he hesitated beneath the new awning.

  He wished to avoid the bars—and unwanted attention—at all costs. His would-be assassins’ friends still huddled together every night outside the strip club, and many more Haven citizens than usual had begun to acknowledge him. He inhaled the gaudy scents wafting on the calm nighttime breeze, then set off toward the gatehouse.

  Moments later, a raised iron portcullis loomed to his left. It was only lifted at night, granting Undead citizens from surrounding Haven communities access to Safehold’s free market, stores, and endless nighttime entertainment. Fanged bodies poured through the gatehouse and scurried away, gaits purposeful. Brian eased his way through the throng of vampires, then turned right at the gatehouse, onto a newer cobblestone street he hadn’t yet traversed. Whereas the leftmost path leading from Safehold Keep always bustled with activity, the main path down the center was almost deserted.

  The overwhelming smell of urine and feces and wet, unkempt fur smacked him like a fist. On the right side of the main path was a stable, chock-full of tethered horses. Several Undead lurked near the hitching posts, averting their gazes and rubbing their necks. To their chagrin, a burly middle-aged vampire sat on a bench near the front door, a crudely fashioned wooden pitchfork resting across his lap.

  To the left of the cobblestone path, wooden gates formed a livestock shed. Inside, typical farm animals lounged in mud and dirt, oblivious to the dozens of customers eyeballing them from outside the pens. A paying customer hopped a fence and approached a plump piglet. The piglet squealed and darted, but the Undead caught it before it could move all four legs. Holding it by the scruff of the neck like a kitten, the customer hopped the fence again and walked past Brian, whistling a dreadful tune, the tempo of which mimicked the heartbeat of a frightened human.

  Brian moved onward, quickening his pace. Beyond the livestock area, two swinging silver gates appeared on his right, beneath a rounded arch. Upon the arch itself, unblemished gold calligraphy-style letters grabbed his attention: “Safehold Manors.” He stopped and stared through the gates’ glinting bars. There were houses beyond, lined up, row upon row, sidewalks spacing them apart equally. Extravagant walkways, stairs, decks, and lawn ornaments dotted the yards. Lights blazed on every porch.

  A grand fountain rested in the center of the gated community. Porch lights lent an ominous glow to the golden structure. Fine-crafted spouts encrusted with clear jewels jutted up from its center, half a dozen six-foot-tall maws reaching toward the skies and spewing clear water. A tiny but extravagant playground was nestled to the left of the fountain. Not even a swing moved from a wandering breeze.

  Childlike giggles rent the serene scene. The sounds were behind him. Brian turned.

  Across from the beautiful community, dingy shacks—much like the orphanage—were lined up, side-by-side, column-by-column. There was limited yard space because the shacks were too close together. Windows were glassless; porches drooped; screen doors hung on with one hinge. Shingles, boards, trash, and concrete blocks lined broken foundations, along with toys that had run their natural course of usage. A torch system similar to that which lined the outer walls lit the trash-laden community.

  Whereas the rich community—with its gates and lights aplenty—was secure and quiet, the slums were loud and eerie. Groups of Undead mingled on properties that were obviously not their own, paying Brian no heed. Grimy children frolicked in a rusty, downtrodden playground at the center, across from the golden fountain. Their innocent giggles caressed the night air.

  He watched them play, enthralled by their energy and happiness. Never had he witnessed a struggling community so exuberant, so many smiles plastered onto dirty, cherub faces. He smiled. It was rare to find communities of opposing classes so close together without witnessing resentment or greed twinkling in the lesser class’s eyes.

  He glanced once more at the lonely golden fountain behind him and then resumed his trek to Safehold Keep. When he reached the outskirts of both tiny communities, two three-story-tall brick buildings of similar size loomed on either side of the pathway. He recognized the Fire Department on the right and the Police Department on the left. Beyond, the Safehold moat gurgled, the drawbridge lowered, inviting.

  He strolled across the drawbridge, ignoring the bubbling moat. Though it was his personal liquid buffet every few days, he still avoided it at all costs.

  Upon entering the castle, Brian sped through the hallways and hidden passageways, navigating his way to Ruby and his bedchamber, anxious to fill her in on his conversation with Stella. Anxious to ensure she was safe, that John hadn’t lapsed into a maniacal fit and attempted to kill her again.

  And anxious to resume his research on the final ingredient for the platelet mushroom.

  ***

  John hummed as he shuffled through the disheveled passageway leading to the scientists’ chamber. There was little evidence that a battle had been fought there several days prior. Ashes had been swept into piles and lined
up along the walls. The damaged stones had been repaired with mortar, the archways formed anew.

  He hugged the fresh linens closer to his body, glad the castle attendants had gone to enjoy the courtyard with the remainder of the blood-suckers. He’d grown to fear and loathe the Undead, yet he felt comfortable around that scientist. And the female, Ruby, wasn’t only gorgeous but also kind. The duo hadn’t pried into his feeble assassination attempt, hadn’t asked him questions about why he was in Safehold. They’d left him alone since their encounter.

  It was far more than Barnaby had ever afforded him.

  With the bickering voices no longer plaguing him, John entertained such thoughts without remorse. He couldn’t believe nearly a decade had passed in servitude to such a cruel vampire. In retrospect, he knew his sniveling and obedience had been irrational yet justifiable behaviors. His mind had been traumatized, and Barnaby had capitalized. He’d driven John to the brink of madness, had drained every ounce of energy and life out of him, had caused the voices to whisper within his mind.

  But now, now I’m in the right mind, he thought. Now I’ll find a way to rid myself of Barnaby forever.

  Death was the only resolution that would bring him peace from the torture and abuse, but killing Barnaby outright was impossible. John also couldn’t fathom committing suicide, so he would need to offend one of the Undead in the courtyard and hope they didn’t fear Barnaby’s swift retribution. Or anger Barnaby upon his return and force the Undead leader to strangle him once and for all.

  But after Frank Hammer’s public death, no Undead would risk killing John no matter what plan he could concoct to provoke them, and Barnaby himself would refrain from killing him. John was a prisoner. His death—his peace—would not come so easily.

  He didn’t wish to wait until natural death occurred, but he could see no other alternative.

  He slowed his pace and stopped humming as he neared the guest chamber. The entrance was open. Light filtered into the darkness of his quiet passageway. Beyond, muffled voices. He crept closer. Though the warring voices inside his own head had subsided, he longed for conversation. Even if he didn’t partake in it.

  “…be back in two days. I’ll confront him then.”

  Ruby muttered something indiscernible. John scuttled ever closer, risking being seen by the flickering candlelight.

  “Stella said he was gone on business that I’d rather not get involved in, Ruby. The way she said it was too meaningful to leave it alone.”

  “You can’t take on the patriarch of the vampires, Brian.”

  “I have no choice. I need to know if he’s behind this.” There was a slight rustle of clothing. “You don’t need to worry about me. I can take care of myself. All right?”

  There was a quiet smack and John’s stomach lurched in reminiscence: He used to kiss Catherine that way. After a dispute or a slight argument, quiet and soft, to let her know without doubt that he cared for her despite whatever was occurring at that moment.

  His lip trembled. He’d planned on kissing her just like that the day he’d returned from his adventure. Deeper, more passionate than ever before.

  Thanks to Barnaby, he would never have that pleasure again.

  John inhaled through his nose to quell the sorrow.

  Then Brian was in front of him, eyes awash in that brilliant, crackling blue energy that’d surfaced during the fight with Vince and his cronies.

  “How long have you been standing here?” Spittle flew from Brian’s whitish lips and his nostrils flared. He looked a lot like Barnaby did when he was upset.

  “I—But—I was—just—”

  Ruby stepped beside Brian and placed a slender hand on his shoulder. His balled fists relaxed. The electricity spitting from his eyes dwindled until they glowed like luminescent blue cat eyes. The scientist glanced at Ruby.

  “I’m sure he meant no harm,” she said. She then addressed John with that kind smile that he’d grown to like over the course of the past few days. “Did you, John?”

  He shook his head, hugging the fresh linens to his chest tighter. Memories flashed: Him being thrown against walls; the time Barnaby had chained him to a gallows and beaten him senseless with a cattail whip, leaving him inches from death but calling upon the priests and their remedies quickly enough to bring him out of his coma; being strapped to the stretching machine that had pulled his arms out-of-socket, and the ensuing pain when the priests had mended those wounds with great force and no regard for his human nervous system; watching the human soldiers being drained of their blood at Barnaby’s side while the Undead leader cackled with delight and stared upon the prisoners like tender morsels of the juiciest steak.

  Catherine, William, John Jr., Sarah.

  All at once, John burst into a fit of tears and flung himself at the feet of the two scientists. The linens tumbled from his grasp, and his robes flung up above his shoulders, exposing his back. He choked on dust and sorrow, wailing, “He’s evil! He’s a horrible creature!” Indistinct voices whispered, chattering. His eyes darted to and fro, darkness cast everywhere by his dislodged robes. Adrenaline rippled through him and he jumped to his feet, rearranging his garments. He glanced first at the female, then the male, then back again, body shaking and lungs lurching to escape his chest.

  What should I do?

  I want to run!

  I can’t!

  “I can’t run anymore!” he answered himself aloud. He closed his eyes, picturing Catherine’s beautiful features. Her cheeks, her chin. The sweet fragrance of her hair.

  His breathing slowed and the shakes subsided. He opened his eyes. The scientists stared at him aghast. They probably wanted to bash him over the head and drag him to a mental hospital.

  He exhaled loudly to scour the final vestiges of insanity from his system. His cheeks were still damp, and new tears streamed down them. But they were controlled tears. He wasn’t afraid anymore. He wasn’t afraid of destroying Barnaby.

  He wasn’t afraid of exposing the truth.

  “Come,” he beckoned, stepping onto the stairway beyond. “I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you everything.”

  Chapter 39

  Brian attempted to moisten his parched tongue and lips, but he found it difficult to conjure saliva. John’s accounts contradicted everything he knew of Barnaby, and he didn’t want to believe a word of it. Was John being genuine? Was Barnaby truly that horrible?

  John had recounted his expedition that day in 2041. He’d even confessed the reason why he’d wanted an impromptu getaway with his friends: Catherine had cheated on him twenty years prior and he’d uncovered the secret. He had gotten away to clear his mind and face the doubts, ponder what might become of their relationship, and decide what path to pursue. After the horrid events of the cavern, he’d returned home to release her from her inner turmoil by overlooking her moment of weakness. His brush with death and the supernatural had prompted him to embrace a bright future with the love of his life, flawed as she’d been.

  After muddling through his memory of the familial massacre, John had then described the horrible tortures he’d been forced to endure upon his arrival in what was then London. He had denied Barnaby’s initial attempts to erode his sanity, but he’d finally cracked and became subservient. He spoke of the warring inner voices, the borderline schizophrenia, the subconscious shift from viewing Barnaby as a vile enemy to his master. He was aware of the transition now. But Brian could ascertain by the haunted look in his eyes that he hadn’t been conscious of it when it occurred.

  Whatever Barnaby’s intentions, irreversible damage had been done. John’s spirit was crushed. His will and physical strength had been obliterated. He was nothing more than a puppet.

  “You know you’re famous, right? Like, a living deity?” Ruby said in an attempt to cheer up the brooding old man. “You’re picture is plastered in textbooks. A multi-billion dollar company even adopted your name, created a slick logo, and produces crossbows and machetes to help kill the Undead.”

 
“I don’t see why,” John replied, staring off into space. “I don’t deserve any of that. I deserve to be punished. Hated. That was how Barnaby saw it, anyway. After I took something so precious away from him.”

  Something so precious. John had supposedly killed Barnaby’s daughter, which prompted his revenge and the Human-Undead War. But Barnaby himself had stated it was impossible for vampires to breed. It couldn’t have been a daughter by blood.

  It didn’t make any sense.

  “John,” Brian interrupted. “Did he create those monsters—those stretching creatures?

  “The jackals, yes. The mist wraiths, too.”

  “Mist wraiths?”

  “The ones that transform into mist.”

  “A vampire that can turn to mist,” Ruby said. “Could it walk through walls?”

  John nodded. “It could even walk through you. You’d hardly know it was there.”

  She glanced at Brian. “Probably wouldn’t even trip alarms.”

  Brian clenched his jaw. “Our kidnapper.”

  “Like a Frankenstein, Barnaby was, when the war stalled out a few years ago,” John droned on. “Kidnapped a group of scientists, forced them to help him create…things. Whatever he could imagine. He wanted unstoppable ugly beasts, and the scientists delivered. He thought up the wraiths, and they gave those to him too.

  “One of them scientists was military. Barnaby beat the poor guy until he revealed the location of a hidden weapons cache in New York. Killed the scientists after that, he did. Didn’t need them anymore. Then his trips to Egypt became much more frequent.”

  Brian could almost smell the koshery on Barnaby’s collar again. “What does he do in Egypt?”

  John hesitated. “I’m not quite sure, really.”

  Brian decided not to press any further. Not that Barnaby’s so-called business trips mattered. In light of the information regarding previous kidnapped scientists, Egypt, and Barnaby’s personality, Brian knew he’d been duped. Barnaby had used his charisma to lure Brian in.