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

by Jonathan Edwardk Ondrashek

  He walked back over to the booth and snatched up the notebooks. The red one seemed to glare at him, mocking him for being useless.

  He read and reread the title several times, then grabbed his coffee and bolted through the doorway of the cafeteria.

  He had something important to do after all.

  ***

  The squirrelly investigator pushed his glasses back on the bridge of his nose. His face flushed and his freckles darkened. “A struggle, yes. But the amount of blood present on the scene isn’t enough for us to conclude there was a death.”

  President Strajowskie folded his arms over his chest. “And how did this intruder leave with them?” He nodded at the sunroof. “That’s at least a fifty-foot ceiling.”

  “There were no sightings of any aircraft, so it wasn’t a human. We believe it was a member of the Undead.”

  “Undead can’t leap that damn high, especially when carrying two people.”

  “Maybe some can.”

  “Well, an Undead wouldn’t have gotten this far without being detected.”

  “That is the only fathomable explanation, Mr. President. Perhaps the URC isn’t impregnable after all.”

  Strajowskie should’ve reprimanded the investigator for treating him like an ignorant idiot. He’d already surmised URC safety protocol had been sabotaged and undermined. Instead, he softened his gaze. It’d been a long day. He couldn’t allow stress to overwhelm him. He thanked the investigator—one of the best in the CIA, he’d been told—and exited the training room, his guards surrounding him on all sides.

  Sometimes he hated being ringed by suits twenty-four hours a day year-round. What was it like to walk down the street or a hallway alone? What was it like to shit or piss without having someone stand two feet away? He missed going out for picnics with his family. He missed drinking a cold beer on his back porch without his guards covering him like a blanket.

  It was good to be protected at all costs. He had the fate of a nation on his shoulders.

  But he sure missed his personal space and freedom.

  They began the trek back toward the exit. As they passed the cafeteria, Strajowskie decided to provide solace to Keith. Though he suggested Keith go home and rest, the stubborn cartographer wouldn’t sleep until he was assured Brian was alive. He admired Keith for his resiliency. Strajowskie needed people like that. He needed to be reminded his country was founded by people with similar goals and opposing views.

  The cafeteria was empty. Strajowskie shrugged.

  Perhaps Manera had finally caved in and called it a night.

  ***

  General Cannopolis tried to break the private standing before him with his coldest gaze. “You must be mistaken.”

  “Sir, I couldn’t make this up if I wanted to.” The youngster sweated and breathed raggedly, air whistling out between two buck teeth. His long blond hair fell over one eye.

  General Cannopolis recalled a time when long hair and facial hair were not allowed in the military. But he also recalled the speed at which they recruited the newer generation, a generation of overweight drug-addled television-and-videogame addicts. The rules had gone out the window. Appearance and ability were of no concern.

  He couldn’t care less for most of them. The slower, incapable ones were nothing more than fodder for the blood-thirsty enemy anyway.

  “Fuck,” Cannopolis muttered. He laced his boots up and gestured for the robust ex-stoner to take the lead. “How many are we talking about?”

  “At least a thousand.”

  General Cannopolis almost stumbled. The battle had dwindled to a few isolated skirmishes in the past year and, without warning, there was a voracious overnight wide-swept attack on the battlefield. He’d been dropped off by Strajowskie’s jet, slept for six hours, awoken, and was gearing up to get reports from the front line when the private had burst into his tent in the center of the encampment.

  “How many injured?”

  “Sir, all are deceased.”

  Cannopolis pushed past the private, through the tent flaps, and stalked toward his personal ATV. How could this have happened? The vampires had resorted to some strange tactics in the past, but he never imagined they’d resort to such extreme measures.

  He kick-started the four-wheeled ATV and opened the throttle wide. He zigzagged through the camp, flying by tents and huddled groups of soldiers who were enjoying cigarettes in the twilight hours. On the outskirts of the encampment, rolling hills and muddy embankments caused the ATV to sludge ahead. His bulky frame was rattled, but he held on and gritted his teeth.

  He knew when he was close. Soldiers stood in groups, backs turned in toward the center of their circles. They hunkered down beneath their helmets, Ashmore crossbows drawn. Cannopolis raced past, screaming at them to re-form and pull the front line back. Most reacted, barking at their comrades. Others stood rooted in place, trembling and confused.

  He reached the crest of a hill and applied the brakes, bracing his body so he wouldn’t fly off the seat. He turned the ATV off, key still in the ignition, and disengaged from the machine.

  Bloody remains of his soldiers were sprawled in awkward positions all over the grassy hills. He tiptoed around and over several bodies, surveying the blood and wounds, his jaw set in determination. Some bodies twitched. Others lay still.

  He found one body, face down, with minimal damage. He eased his foot beneath the soldier’s stomach and kicked upward and out, flipping the body over.

  The corporal’s mouth was wide open, eyes glazed. Wounds on his neck and arms oozed blood. Steam escaped the still-warm body in the cool dawn air. Cannopolis reached down, Ashmore subconsciously out of its holster and in his right hand. His ears strained for the slightest of sounds but he knew there would be only silence.

  He ripped the corporal’s Kevlar vest apart, the Velcro tearing sporadically. He held it up with his left hand. Gunpowder surrounded blackened holes on the Kevlar. The vest had worked. A bullet to the throat had done him in. Judging from the slugs that fell out of the vest as Cannopolis prodded it, automatic rifles as well as pistols had been involved.

  He dropped the vest in disgust, then reached down and closed each of the dead man’s eyelids. Cannopolis wished he’d known the corporal. The position of his body indicated he’d been running into the fray of the battle rather than away. A brave man.

  He surveyed the dead again. They would receive proper burial during full daylight. In the meantime, he needed to rally the soldiers, re-form, and tighten a new front line for the following evening.

  And he also needed to confirm Strajowskie’s recent intelligence report.

  Chapter 10

  “Hammers said the introduction of weaponry worked without a hitch, Master,” John Ashmore said, bowing his head.

  Barnaby clapped, his dark fingernails clacking together. The sound echoed eerily in his great chamber. He sat shirtless atop his throne, his chair made of human bones. Ribs and other various bones jutted out on the sides of the back rest. Skulls adorned the top of the chair and the armrests were constructed of femurs and humerus bones.

  “Scouts have seen the Human Army burying their dead. They’re paranoid and cautious.”

  Barnaby leaned forward, his chest muscles taut. “Are my twenty prisoners in their room?”

  “Yes, Master.”

  Barnaby smiled and rose. John stepped aside as he passed by. The Undead’s leather pants made a slight swishing sound as he approached the fountain in the center of the room. The fountain was sculpted in the shape of a gorgeous, shapely, naked woman with long flowing hair. Her hands were raised above her head as if she were glorifying a higher being. Her eyes and mouth were hollow, dark holes.

  John admired it yet loathed it. He knew the fountain’s purpose.

  Barnaby placed his hand atop the stone slab beneath the fountain. A black light emanated from his palm and sped outward until his hand was a dark, glowing ball. The floor shuddered beneath them, and John fell to one knee. It sounded as if the
earth had been torn asunder, rock grating upon rock. Then all was still and John arose.

  A hole had opened before Barnaby, where the stone slab had been. The fountain remained the centerpiece but was now inside a shallow pool. Barnaby kicked off his slippers and waded in, still wearing his leather pants. He stepped to the fountain and pulled down on one of the woman’s arms. Dark liquid poured forth from the empty eye sockets, nostrils, and open mouth.

  Anguished screams were audible, coming from below. John shivered. Two of the prisoners were being crushed alive, their blood vacuumed and pumped up through the fountain mechanism.

  Barnaby turned his face to the ceiling. The liquid poured down his forehead, into his eyes, into his mouth. He shrieked, and blood spurted everywhere in a fine mist.

  John pulled his robe closer about his shoulders.

  “Ashmore.” Barnaby faced him, covered in blood. “See to it that our two guests are escorted safely to the guest chamber. Allow them to freshen up. I will meet them later.” He turned away again and immersed himself to his neck inside the pool.

  John obliged, leaving Barnaby’s chamber before having to listen to anymore anguished cries from the hapless prisoners below.

  ***

  The hunched creature led the way up the spiraling stairwell, dragging feet and kicking up dust. Brian’s body was sore and tight from confinement in the cell. Every step added to the discomfort, yet he welcomed the freedom that had been afforded them. Ruby was one step behind, pain mirrored on her face as well. She was pale and bedraggled, yet she was more attractive in her natural state of appearance. He had never cared for make-up.

  Brian couldn’t discern the gender or race of their silent guide, who was buried in a large brown robe, only the pointy tip of a nose visible on its face and hairy, callused feet sticking out from the bottom of the long garment. Hairy feet didn’t generally imply female, but he’d been duped before. And it was improbable that a human resided in Barnaby’s empire. A male vampire, then?

  The stairs ended at a large wooden door. Brian thought about shoving their guide head-first into the door, but where would it get him? He and Ruby would be free in a community comprised of vampires. They wouldn’t survive more than an hour, if that. And if he underestimated the guide’s physical prowess, he’d be up against a foe he couldn’t overpower.

  His face flushed. Such thoughts of violence would’ve been unheard of two days prior. Even their current situation didn’t warrant him forsaking his peaceful demeanor. Or did it? He’d never been threatened in such a capacity before. Perhaps instincts were taking over.

  The guide pulled open the door and turned right down the hallway beyond. He took two steps, stopped, and placed both hands upon the wall. Brian stopped abruptly, almost toppling over their guide. Ruby bumped into Brian from behind and he grazed the guide’s back.

  The cowl of the guide’s robe fell away.

  “Hey!” The man was far older than Brian would’ve guessed. He had gentle blue eyes, bushy grey eyebrows, and liver spots on his bald head.

  And no sharp fangs.

  Brian gasped. He’d assumed no humans resided in Haven, yet their guide was definitely human. There was something familiar about him too. Where had he seen that face?

  The old man’s knitted brow rose in surprise and he pulled the hood back over his head. “Watch where you’re going,” he mumbled. He pushed on a stone and a hidden door opened inward.

  The man took off down the dark entrance beyond. Ruby nudged Brian and leaned close, whispering, “Where have I seen him before?”

  “No clue, but I feel like I’ve seen him before, too. Did you notice his teeth?”

  “Human.”

  Brian nodded. They took off after the stooped man, following the sounds of his dragging feet. Visibility became so minimal they couldn’t see beyond their own reach. After several minutes of blinding darkness, Ruby’s hand reached out to grip Brian’s.

  He smiled. He was certain the current circumstances were propelling their relationship from business to personal. Whatever the reason behind their sudden rise in intimacy and touch, he didn’t care. He wasn’t at work. He doubted he would ever see the URC again. He enjoyed the growing sense of comfort and welcomed Ruby’s subtle advances.

  Brian grew anxious after another minute of visual deprivation passed. Where was the old man taking them? To Barnaby? To certain death? Was he helping them escape imprisonment, or was he a human lackey of the Undead leader?

  He wished he could foresee the future. He had already made up his mind on Barnaby’s offer. But what would that decision do to his personal life? What of his relationship with Keith, Strajowskie, Ruby? Could he trust Barnaby?

  Was he making the right decision?

  A light appeared before them. Brian shielded his eyes and let go of Ruby’s hand.

  “Sorry, sometimes I forget the limitations of human senses.” The old man lowered a lantern. Shadows danced on his pointy nose.

  Brian blinked, chasing spots. “But you’re human.”

  The old man chuckled. Brian got the impression he didn’t laugh often. “Once upon a time, perhaps.”

  They followed the hunched man, stomachs growling. Brian could feel the negative effects coursing through his body. Lack of food made him sluggish and drained, yet fear and anticipation kept him alert, ready for anything.

  After several bends and turns, they ascended a U-turn stairwell that climbed to an apparent dead-end. The old man placed his weathered hands upon the stone wall and a door opened into a bright room. Brian and Ruby followed him in, blinking to adjust to the lighting.

  The room was elegant, large enough to be a ballroom. Red satin drapes hung loose on all sides. Knight armored statues were posted in each corner, near oak beds and nightstands. In the center set a porcelain claw-foot bathtub, steaming water inside. Male and female toiletries set near the feet of the tub. Two piles of clothing lay beside it, folded neatly. A small fanny-pack rested atop each pile.

  Silent, the hunched man then exited back through the hidden entrance behind them.

  Brian waltzed around the room, Ruby trailing behind him. Intricate hieroglyphics dazzled the rugs beneath their feet. Pillowcases and comforters on the beds were embroidered with pyramid and sphinx designs. Random, exotic designs were sewn onto the drapes lining the room. The armored knight statues held shields with griffins and pyramids etched into the crests.

  “Looks like this stuff belonged to royalty. Like Egyptian pharaohs and queens.”

  “Yeah, and it was probably taken by force.” Brian pulled back drapes between two nightstands and leaned out over a glassless stone sill. Ruby stepped forward and gasped.

  Below was a sheer drop-off, about two miles deep, which ended at a river that wended out of sight like a thin ribbon on both sides of the horizon. Green, vibrant canopies of trees dotted the lands. Various birds chirped and flew in the sunlit sky. Brian glanced up. The castle was swallowed by clouds.

  “This castle rests on the edge of London, so that must be the Thames down there,” he said. “A perfect spot for an Undead fortress.”

  “It’s kind of weird that this land is lush and untainted. Everything else they touch dies.”

  “Weird, indeed.”

  “It’s all dreamy regardless.” Ruby sighed, walked over to the tub, and dipped her fingers in the water. She glanced at him and batted her eyes. “It won’t stay nice and warm forever. Who’s first?”

  His cheeks warmed as he found Ruby’s eyes. A playful fire danced in her pupils. He cleared his throat. “Ladies first.” He turned his back to her and gazed upon the wonderment beyond the window. “I promise I won’t look.”

  “You can if you want. I’m not shy.” Several buttons unsnapped. There was a rustle followed by a slight thud as clothing hit the rug.

  Water lapped against the side of the porcelain tub. Brian risked a glance over his shoulder as she stepped into the water. Ruby had a shapely rear, slender shoulders, and dimples at the small of her back. They acce
nted the sexy dimples on her face when she smiled.

  He turned his attention back to the window. A lone figure glided by, but his thoughts were too pleasant to envy the hawk’s freedom in the open sky.

  ***

  “But I like them. They seem kind enough.”

  No! You must kill them both! Her first, then him.

  John Ashmore shook his head. “She reminds me of someone.”

  Focus on the present. The past is of no consequence.

  A name danced at the forefront of his mind. “That’s it! Catherine! She reminds me of Catherine when she was that age!”

  Enough! Forget about her! She is not Catherine nor will she ever be! She is long gone!

  John paused on the crosswalk and stared into the churning moat of blood. He’d trekked to the bowels of the castle to collect his thoughts. The voice was ever-insistent that he destroy the scientists. He had thought they’d help him overcome his servitude to the Master. Instead, the male scientist was given an opportunity to stand by the Master’s side. His lip quivered. “She’s gone because of the Master.”

  The Master gives you life! If the male becomes an Undead, you will be nothing to him!

  “I’m nothing to him now,” John muttered, fighting back tears.

  You are wrong! You are a necessity in his grand scheme!

  If you kill the humans, you can trump him. You can gain the edge you seek.

  The voices were convincing. John didn’t want to kill the scientists, but the only way to pay back his evil Master was to assassinate those he regarded so highly. It wouldn’t be an easy task, and perhaps the Master would be enraged and kill John once and for all. Or he would be praised and remain at the Master’s side.

  Either way, he would win.

  He coughed and resumed his trek across the moat, turning left at the end. He pondered soaking in the warmth of the sunlight outside while the Undead denizens of Haven slept. Instead, he headed for the torture chamber. Surely half of the victims were still alive, screaming in anguish as beds of metal spikes crushed them and sucked their blood up into the Master’s chamber fountain.