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

by Jonathan Edwardk Ondrashek

  But why? Why kidnap him, offer him unlimited resources to pursue the platelet mushroom, transform him, and lie to him the entire time? Why build such an intricate ruse?

  “Are all those scars on your back from him?” Ruby asked, nonchalant.

  A deep frown wrinkled John’s features. “Yes. Even the leeches couldn’t prevent them.”

  “And this one?” she asked, touching him on his right side. She blushed as he shrank away from her. “Sorry, I saw it earlier, when you dropped the linens.”

  “That was from a kidney transplant I had when I first met Catherine.” John stared into the moat below his dangling feet and chuckled. “The way she coddled me those days. I’ll never forget how stressed out she was over the whole ordeal. I wasn’t far down on the donor list, but you’d have thought I’d never get one with the way she fussed.”

  “Were there complications?” Ruby asked, hugging her knees to her chest.

  Brian couldn’t help but smile. Ruby was being Ruby. She’d always been good at empathizing. Though Brian’s mind wandered, he wasn’t blind to John’s emotional state. Locked away in the castle all those years, with no one to confide in. Ruby was giving John what he needed most: A friend, an eager ear.

  John chuckled again. “No, nothing of the sort. Catherine was a hypochondriac. If I got a splinter, she’d demand an ambulance. A motherly person. It’s what drew me to her in the first place. When my kidneys started to fail—hereditary, mind you—she didn’t understand the process of getting a donor and an operation. And, boy, did she freak out when she found out my blood type was rare.”

  Brian stiffened. Hairs at the nape of his neck bristled. It was too much of a coincidence. He bolted upright and hefted John up to stand beside him. The old man grunted and shrank away, heart fluttering.

  Brian embraced John’s shoulders and stared into his wide, glistening eyes. “Oh-negative?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  Ruby gasped.

  Holy shit. Brian’s mind whirled. The platelet was within reach. He tried to keep his elation—and the resultant crackling eyeball energy—at bay, but rushed words tumbled from his tongue. “Will you help me?”

  “Help with what?”

  “I need you for something. Something important. You’d be a bigger hero than you already are.”

  The old man shook his head. “I don’t want to be a hero. I just want to die.”

  Brian smiled. “Precisely what I had in mind.”

  ***

  Brian chattered away, gushing and gabbing like a schoolgirl who was just asked to Prom by the football quarterback. It was boyishly attractive, but Ruby hadn’t been able to look at Brian the same way since the scene in the passageway.

  She’d seen a monster that night. She hadn’t been able to sleep, the image of his fist bashing in a vampire’s head too fresh. She had fallen for him, but his menacing smile when he told John he could help him die brought back the disdain she now felt toward him.

  Her mind wandered as Brian described the preparations John would soon undergo. She was bitter about being misled by Barnaby. It didn’t seem fair. John was a kind, gentle man, if but a bit misguided due to his overall treatment over the past seven years. The way he spoke of Catherine made her stomach jump as if full of butterflies.

  She looked again at Brian and tilted her head. The butterflies danced anew.

  Ruby bit her lip and quickened her pace, anxious to hear Brian’s plans for the procedure. She wanted to familiarize herself with the process to ensure John wasn’t inadvertently harmed in any way. She hoped—prayed—that Brian was right about the blood type being the final catalyst to creating the platelet mushroom. If not, they could be taking the precious life of a man who meant so much to the world.

  And she feared that Brian, in all of his glee to be one step closer to the harmonious world he envisioned, cared not about the man he might sacrifice for the sake of his own ambitions.

  ***

  “I don’t think you have much of a choice!” Cannopolis threw his arms in the air to punctuate his exasperation. His wheelchair rested in shade cast by the hulking covered cannon. Keith stood beside him, bedraggled but silent.

  “If they’re too weary to scale the bluffs, they have to come back through the pass, Arthur,” Strajowskie said. “If we start firing the cannon now, we risk killing our own men when Rucker Road is compromised. It’s a risk I dare not take.” He turned away and spoke over his shoulder. “And it’s not your call. It’s mine. We hold off on the cannon until Drake and his men return.”

  He was too tired and miserable from the humidity to argue any further and strode away, toward the mouth of the pass. Undecipherable epithets berated him from behind, but he didn’t turn back. So what if he had pissed off his general? It was his call, and rightfully so. He hadn’t relinquished command yet, and Cannopolis was still confined to his wheelchair.

  A rumble shook the earth beneath him. He reached his left hand out to the jagged bluff wall to steady himself. Scores of the beasts plowed into the front line a hundred yards away.

  These sons-of-bitches and their sunlight immunity.

  No, he wouldn’t allow Drake and his men to fall on Rucker Road. Not of his accord. As soon as the colonel and his Kevlar Dozen crested the bluffs or back-stepped through the pass, he would order his men to retreat to their places.

  Then they would slaughter the Undead in droves, until the last one scrambled into the pass.

  ***

  “Bloody Hell,” Drake muttered. Five of his Kevlar Dozen floated in pools of blood at his feet. The sun blazed down, not quite hidden behind the bluff yet. Sweat dribbled down his face, stinging his eye wound. Over the smell of cool autumn air, there lingered the enthralling scent of death and destruction and war.

  A fresh wave of vampires rolled into the ravine. Drake’s excitement surged as his shoddy traps sprang to life again. Obscure branches were trampled underfoot. Grass-woven nets triggered, snapping up handfuls of the vampires. Quick-witted victims turned to mist, reappearing and solidifying on the ground as the nets swung overhead.

  Then, just as Drake had rigged them, the nets snapped on the forward swing. The victims inside churned in midair, either too afraid or too ignorant to shift into their mist forms.

  They hit the ground and Drake’s grin widened as false patches of earth gave way. Screams erupted from the stake pits. Ash flittered in mushroom-like clouds from within the holes. Lucky vampires that had evaded the nets teetered on the edge of the revealed stake pits.

  Up and down the ravine, nets swayed and dropped. Ash and screams rent the air. Waves of the approaching vampires tumbled into the open pits, joining their dead brethren. From the bluff across from Rucker Road, archers loosed a shower of arrows. They found their marks, bringing the Undead front lines down.

  The Kevlar Seven gasped and shifted postures, both amused with the traps in the ravine and anxious to join in the fray. He couldn’t have chosen a better group: Young, ambitious, eager to maim their adversaries. Though the last wave of vampires had picked their way through the labyrinth of traps and demolished five of the Dozen, the remaining Seven were not deterred.

  Their chance to clash would come. Bodies of Undead that hadn’t disintegrated were piling up, covering many of his traps and filling the stake pits. Another hour and the ravine would be compromised. They would then have to stand and fight until a lull in the battle, or turn around and scale the bluff behind them to gain sanctuary.

  The ground quaked, pitching him several inches off the ground. He landed. Several of his Kevlar members ended up splayed on the asphalt. Above the rumblings, he heard twangs of crossbows behind him, startled gasps. Arrows fell uncomfortably close to him and his personal team.

  Uprooted trees toppled onto the never-ending sea of Undead in the ravine, squashing them before they could scream. Then dozens of the giant, hairy stretching beasts sped into view. They wrenched trees from the ground and flung their warring companions aside in disregard. The center and forem
ost of the beasts drew Drake’s attention. It was twice the size of the other beasts in bulk alone, and twice as tall without stretching. Its forehead was more pronounced, its hair longer, scales glowing in the high-noon sunlight.

  It reared its head to the sky and screeched. Drake and everyone in the vicinity had to clamp their weapon-laden hands over their ears to drown out the chilling sound.

  Amidst cursing and gasps, Drake shouted, “Hold Rucker Road! Do not retreat until you have my orders!”

  Soldiers milled up and down the street, passing on the orders. Drake gripped his rigged pike and Kevlar shield tighter. Undead scrambled over the pitfalls and traps and climbed onto the shoddy asphalt street. Their eyes glowed as if recharged by energy.

  Drake’s men had gotten minutes of reprieve from fighting as the Undead had fallen prey to their clever ravine traps. But they were weary and down-trodden. They had stalled wave after wave of mist vampires for eight hours.

  They couldn’t stall any longer.

  The Kevlar Seven surrounded him. The first new wave of vampires approached in blurs. Each body wavered, except for the beasts.

  Before his faithful soldiers slid their shields together, Drake scanned the battlefield with his one eye until he locked on the largest beast.

  The beast stared right back, cutting a swath through its own brothers.

  It was coming for him.

  Chapter 40

  Drake ducked a mighty six-fingered open-hand blow. The Kevlar-clad soldier behind him was swatted and flew through the air, crashing into the sheer limestone bluff wall with a sickening crunch. Drake stood to full height and parried several strikes with his machete. Then his missing eyeball caused a blind spot.

  Excruciating pain shot through his face and Drake was airborne, lifted several feet off the ground by the unseen blow. He landed on his back and scrambled back to his feet. A large shadow fell over him. He slashed his machete, stepping back with each fending strike.

  The extremely giant beast licked scaly lips with its three-pronged tongue and offered what could only be considered a grin. Then it balled up a fist and slung it at Drake’s left temple. He slipped in his haste to parry. The slip caused a deflection. Pain shot through the uninjured side of his face, but he still stood firm. He roared, hoping to draw the attention of his Kevlar soldiers.

  But his soldiers had formed a half-shell with their shields to fend off a dozen of the regular-sized giant beasts. His heart sank. There would be no immediate help from his personal guard.

  He hacked away at the beast’s upper thighs as it wound up its fist for another blow. This time, he was ready. It swung. He ducked and side-stepped the beast, shoving his machete with both hands hilt-deep beneath its ribs. The beast attempted to wrench the machete out of its torso. Drake darted past it, searching for a weapon. He slid a few times, putting his hand out to catch himself. Sweat dribbled into his facial wounds, but he was so numb that nothing stung anymore.

  There, beside several of the dead Kevlar soldiers: One of his rigged pikes. Drake dove headfirst, sliding on his belly. His fingers wrapped around the pole. He pushed himself back to his feet and whirled around to face his adversary, keeping the right side of his face toward the ravine.

  Its legs elongated, shooting it up high, until it was almost as tall as the bluff behind it. Arrows showered down from the sky, breathtaking brown bullets streaking in front of the sun. Dozens of arrowheads burrowed into the giant beast’s exposed backside. It screeched that horrible pterodactyl-like sound again. All in the vicinity—Human and Undead alike—stopped to cover their ears.

  Using the distraction, Drake whirled around, stomped over to his Kevlar soldiers, and skewered two of the hairy beasts surrounding them before anyone noticed his presence. He jerked the haft of the pike back down and out of their bodies when they didn’t explode into ash. The Kevlar soldiers shook themselves from their siren-like induced trance and took his example in stride, jutting pikes out from behind their half-formed shield barrier.

  The dozen beasts that had held his Kevlar Seven at bay lay dead at their feet before the shrill screeching ended.

  Drake scooped up a fallen machete from the ground. His men wiped their brows, breathing raggedly. Then Drake and his Seven wheeled about as one cohesive unit and charged the super beast. It had shrunk to its normal size, writhing about in agony, attempting to dislodge the multitude of arrows that jutted out of its back like porcupine quills. Drake led his men to the feet of the beast and hacked away with his new machete.

  Ignoring the fervent strikes, the beast bowled over three of the Seven with one backhanded blow. Drake skirted the trajectory of the swing and sliced down with his machete. The beast recoiled. Its severed arm plopped onto broken asphalt. Drake kicked the fleshy arm. It skirted across Rucker Road, disappearing among the piles of dead bodies.

  The three Kevlar soldiers were back on their feet, shields poised, blood-soaked pikes hefted. They broke apart, circling the injured beast.

  The beast struck out with its remaining arm. Two of the Kevlar soldiers splattered against the ground, bleeding from severe slashes across their throats. Two more fell to their knees, clutching exposed intestines. Their cries of agony drowned out the triumphant bellow of the beast.

  Drake and the remaining Three backed up, shoulder-to-shoulder. Their shields and pikes were slick with blood and sweat and unrecognizable meaty substances, their breathing too labored to speak.

  The creature resumed its attempt to dislodge the arrows embedded in its back, apparently satisfied that it had subdued its enemies.

  One of the soldiers beside him pointed back toward the ravine. Drake glanced. An uprooted tree lay in the ditch next to Rucker Road. The tip of it was thick, bark-covered, and pointy. The soldier made jabbing motions with his hands. Drake understood the soldier’s intent and nodded.

  The Three and Drake attached their weapons to their armor as best they could. They jogged through the midst of battling friends and foes to the uprooted tree, which was about six feet long and not thick enough to be unmanageable. With two on each side, they squatted and interlinked hands and fingers beneath the tree. They hefted it up to cradle it in their arms. Then they power-lifted it and extended their arms until they were planted firm beneath the horizontal tree. They waded through corpses toward the preoccupied beast.

  Even with the ground slippery from death, they built enough momentum to speed up to a steady trot. The beast looked up just as the tip plowed into its abdomen. Their momentum stalled. The bulk of the beast was too much for them.

  The Three screamed with rage, bolstered by adrenaline. Drake joined in. They dug their feet into the ground, pushing forward. The beast budged, screeching in dismay. It stepped back, then again, and again. Drake roared. His thighs bulged, knees wobbling from the strain. Together, the four men propelled the skewered beast across Rucker Road. They didn’t stop even when knee-high weeds swallowed their feet.

  The beast’s back connected with limestone and the four men were jolted again. The wooden tip sank deeper into the beast’s abdomen. Drake let go of the tree. Being the most unencumbered of the four, he stepped out from beneath their weapon, scrambled to the back of the trunk, and hoisted himself onto it. The Three struggled beneath the additional weight, but Drake was light on his feet. He sped on tiptoes to the beast. It swatted at him, rage wrinkling its large shelf-like brow. He ducked, produced his machete, and sliced its other arm off before it could come around with a backswing.

  He dropped the machete to the ground and reached around to his back to pull his pike from its bo-like sheath. The creature’s eyes spit with red electricity as it glared at him.

  He aimed and slid the rigged arm. The tip rammed into the center of the beast’s chest. Electricity spat again, then died out. The beast’s eyelids drooped. Drake jumped off the tree as the creature slumped. The Kevlar Three stepped out from under their weapon, sweating and shaking from exhaustion. The trunk fell to the earth.

  They lined up with backs agains
t the limestone bluff. It offered shade from the western sinking sun. In silence, the men rested, battle raging around them. No Undead approached them. Drake wasn’t certain if everyone was too wrapped up in their own battles or if they avoided them because of the super beast that was pinned to the limestone next to him. But he was relieved for the few minutes of peace.

  The weapon used against the super beast had spurred an idea.

  He allowed his Kevlar men to regain control of their lungs and then said, “Issue the fallback to the bluffs.”

  Without waiting for a response, he turned to his right and walked toward Eighth Street. He kept his hand against the limestone, using it as a guide, his good eye trained on the battlefield. He quickened his pace, straining every muscle.

  He needed to get to the cannon before the pass was lost.

  ***

  Colonel Drake limped into the pass. Strajowskie rushed to greet him and grimaced. Drake’s face was a mess. Deep vertical cuts ran from brow to chin on the left side, oozing clear liquid as if infected. His left eye was open but a sliver. The eyelids of his right eye were swollen and hid the empty eye socket well. His right cheekbone was visible through a nasty gash, and his nose was crooked, probably broken. Blood everywhere, like hamburger meat.

  Sweat dripped into every cut, but Drake managed a smile. “Mr. President,” he said, saluting.

  Strajowskie returned the salute and waved over several lollygagging medics. He peered behind the colonel. “Your men?”

  “Only three left. Rucker Road and the ravine are lost, sir.” A young medic set a stool behind the colonel, who plopped onto it.

  “A bit sooner than I expected, but all the same.” Strajowskie gestured with his chin. “We should be able to hold this northern end of Rucker and these few blocks for another hour before we fall back to the pass.”

  “Exactly what I was hoping to hear, sir. I would like to request permission to—”

  “You will allow these medics to attend to you in the safety of the camp. You will rest and rejoin with medical clearance only. Is that understood?”