“Sure.”
Keith reached above the desk to a small cabinet and pulled out an ankle sensor. It was black and shaped like a pentagon, with a large red glass circle in the center. He flipped the switch and opened the straps, then bent down and wrapped it around Strajowskie’s right ankle.
Strajowskie glanced down at the sensor, then turned and entered the training room.
Keith finished setting up the program, flipped all the switches, strode to the window, and activated the intercom. “Signal when you’re ready, Mr. President.”
Strajowskie already stood below, in the center of the Styrofoam pillars and boulders. He looked up and did an impatient whirligig motion with his right hand.
Have at it then. Keith smashed the black button with disinterest. Sirens wailed. Jungle noises filled the tiny observation room, and metal grated on metal as the center cage rose from the floor. But this time, Keith hoped, the culprits inside the cage would be holograms. Nothing more.
He peered out the window. Below, Strajowskie stood not ten feet from the rising cage, large Ashmore level. The cage stopped rising. Locks released. An eerie silence followed.
Vampires appeared inside the open cage: one fat, one skinny, the rest in between to varying degrees. Each had unique physical features, from red hair and green eyes to black cropped hair and black eyes. They all had different, yet telling, mannerisms (one had an eye tic) and different clothing to boot. One by one, they clawed their way out, until all twelve holograms huddled outside the cage. They froze in place, eyes locked on Strajowskie.
Strajowskie lowered the tip of the Ashmore.
The vampires leapt into the air simultaneously, above him.
Keith pressed his palms against the window. There were too many, too fast!
With blinding speed and agility, Strajowskie lowered himself to one knee and leaned backward. One, two, three, four, five wooden stakes flew out as the whirling mass of claws and fangs and limbs descended upon him.
Five holograms disappeared.
Strajowskie rolled to the right. The tangle of Undead collided with the floor. Out of the roll, Strajowskie pounced to his feet and sprinted to the nearest boulder. The Undead shook their heads to gain their bearings before taking off after him. He dodged behind the boulder, firing his Ashmore over his shoulder twice.
Two more holograms disappeared.
The remaining five vampire holograms rushed the boulder. Two jumped atop it as the other three circled around one side. Movement to the left, behind a pillar, caught Keith’s attention. He smiled and glanced back at the Strajowskie-less boulder. The holograms shrugged and looked at each other. The fattest one then pointed its nose upward. Its nostrils expanded and its head swiveled about. It pointed at the pillar.
Keith pressed even closer to the glass.
Strajowskie jumped into view again. The large Ashmore was strapped to his back, and he once again brandished the machete and mini-Ashmore. He taunted the group of holograms, waving his machete.
The vampires fanned out and stalked forward.
Keith glanced at his watch. Two minutes down.
The fat vampire leapt at Strajowskie, who ducked. The vampire flew over the president and barrelled into the eye-tic vampire. They toppled to the floor in a heap. Another vampire dove at Strajowskie and landed on his back. Strajowskie stood straight up, then fell backward. The vampire released its hold. Strajowskie kicked out with his legs, brought his hands to the ground, and pushed off the floor with the power of his arms, righting himself and standing in one acrobatic leap. All while holding the machete and the mini-Ashmore.
He wheeled about, kicked the vampire in the head, then shot it once in the chest. The hologram disappeared. Yet another vampire flew at him from behind. He sliced up over his head, turned to face the new adversary, and sliced downward with the machete. The vampire stood in front of the president, unblinking.
Keith held his breath, thinking the vampire would reach out and the program would shut down.
Instead, the hologram’s head slid off its shoulders. Then the body and the severed head disappeared.
The fat vampire and the eye-tic vampire were still disentangling themselves as the final standing vampire launched an assault. It jumped and kicked in mid-air, soaring toward Strajowskie’s head. He fell flat to the floor. The vampire sailed over him. The president stood, wheeled about, and flung back the arm holding the machete. He levelled the mini-Ashmore in their direction with his other hand, then threw the raised arm forward and let the blade fly.
The fat vampire stood up in the path of the kicking vampire.
Strajowskie pulled the trigger on the Ashmore.
The machete pierced through the heads of both the soaring vampire and the fat one as the two Undead collided. Both holograms disappeared. The eye-tic vampire was standing and brushing itself off behind them when they dissipated. It looked up, startled.
The stake from the Ashmore thudded into its chest. It also disappeared.
Keith gulped and checked his watch.
Three minutes.
He rushed to the computer and pulled up the program that captured data from the sensor around Strajowskie’s ankle.
The vampires hadn’t scored a single hit.
***
Keith rubbed the growing stubble on his cheek. If he let it grow another week, he’d have a full face of hair and a visible receding hairline etched with white hairs. Brian would have a laugh if he saw him unshaven.
He stood and paced the room. Strajowskie was now heading to the battlefield, and Keith had the nagging suspicion the impromptu training session meant the president was preparing to join in the fray. Not since the Medieval times had such an occurrence happened. Leaders didn’t lead on the field. They led from afar in order to survive and govern their people. Strajowskie seemed hell-bent on changing that out-dated perception, though.
But with the Undead making secretive plans and bringing weapons onto the battlefield, was Strajowskie making a mistake by abandoning his post and jumping into the heat of the war? And why did the Undead need weapons? To even the odds? Create pandemonium? A distraction for some larger scheme?
Keith urged the thoughts from his mind and sighed. The president was gone. Brian and Ruby were gone, injured, possibly worse. The URC had basically been deserted since the kidnapping. Negotiations were obsolete. There were no new lands to map out.
It wasn’t fair. Everyone was out doing something, of their own accord or not, while he was left to ponder their whereabouts and fret over their well-being. The world was crashing down around him, around everyone. He couldn’t sit by and watch it happen. He had to make a difference. He had to do something.
He stopped pacing. Brian’s stack of notebooks were on his desk, next to the computer.
He’d planned on attempting the experiment soon, once he found a willing subject. Against Strajowskie’s knowledge. But with boredom brooding over his shoulder, he impulsively decided not to wait to run the experiment.
He’d had a willing volunteer all along.
He snatched up the notes and rushed to the laboratory.
Chapter 16
General Cannopolis sprinted to the front line and stared. Half of his assembly had vanished into the night. Confusion slapped every remaining soldier with glee. Fog rolled in from the direction of the enemy lines. Something ghastly was happening, something he hadn’t planned for. Weeks of small, controlled skirmishes between the opposing sides, then the sudden appearance of weaponry—Those damn vampires were brewing something.
“Report!” he shouted at one of his lieutenants.
“General—They just—They’re gone!”
“I can see that. May I get a report from someone who isn’t a complete fucking moron?” Cannopolis snapped.
A young man stepped beside Cannopolis and saluted. He couldn’t have been more than eighteen, if that. “Sir, Private Johnson, sir! It looked like giant arms coming from the fog, sir!”
Cannopolis gripped Johnson by his
Kevlar straps and pulled him close. “Private, drop the goddamn formalities and tell me what the fuck is going on here!”
“Giant arms! Hairy and full of muscle, coming from the fog. Twenty feet long.”
“That’s it?”
The boy shook in Cannopolis’ grasp. “There weren’t any bodies. Just arms.”
Cannopolis released the private and looked around in bewilderment. Human Army morale had dipped since the Undead introduced trajectory weapons. Mental health was deteriorating. Maybe the young boy was insane from the war, hallucinating in the wake of such a terrible loss to their front line.
The lieutenant to his right tapped him on the shoulder. “General Cannopolis, what do you propose, sir?”
“Jesus Christ,” Cannopolis muttered, his mind whirling. “Give the orders to retreat.”
“Retreat, retreat!” Shouts arose from all quarters. A stampede of soldiers fled from the line.
Private Johnson stumbled away from Cannopolis, toward the fog. He looked like a marionette, unable to control his own footsteps.
“Private, you heard the orders! Move!”
The private’s head was suddenly shorn clean off his neck, and his body plopped to the ground.
Cannopolis glanced around. There were no monsters, no attackers, no arms. He’d never seen such cowardice on his opponent’s part. “Show yourselves, you pussies!” He held his Ashmore, aimed and ready.
Something wet and sticky flew through the air and smacked him on the nose. He pulled it away. An ear lay in the palm of his hand. Roaring, he fired into the fog until his clip of arrows was depleted. He reached into his pack to grab another clip. A sponge-like human organ splashed against his chest. Warm blood splattered everywhere, but he focused on reloading the Ashmore. He glanced up in time to see a leg heading straight for his head. He ducked, lost his footing, and sprawled onto the ground.
He struggled to one knee. A hand punched him square in the temple. He reached to his ankle, pulled his hunting knife out of its sheath, and sliced in an upward arc before the hand could retract. Something thumped on the grass at his feet. A blood-curdling, inhuman scream erupted from somewhere in the fog. He picked the bloody stump up off the ground.
Clenched around the elbow of a severed human arm was something unworldly: A hairy, six-fingered webbed hand, brown in color and scaly. Green ooze and black-as-night blood squirted from an abnormal, large vein protruding from the severance point. Cannopolis didn’t have time to figure out what he was looking at before the owner stepped forth from the fog.
It was gigantic. It stalked toward him, one arm a bloody stump. Its torso was ten feet in the air, and its long legs stretched beyond comprehension with each step. Then the legs shrank to human size as it stepped within reach and the torso lowered to eye-level.
The creature resembled what Cannopolis imagined a fairy tale troll might look like: Brown, scaly, with elongated limbs of pure muscle. The face was blunt, with a pug-nose, inset eyes, and a shelf-like brow. There was no hair on its head, but black, oily hairs covered its body from neck to foot. Two large tusk-like teeth jutted out from its lower lip. It opened its mouth and screamed, revealing a two-pronged serpent tongue and shark-sharp teeth with bits of flesh hanging from them.
A chill ran down Cannopolis’ spine. It sounded human.
Snot flew from its nose and coated Cannopolis’ Kevlar. The creature reared back its hand as if to strike, but its arm stretched back into the fog behind them instead. Then the arm snapped forward like a sling-shot and smacked Cannopolis in the mouth. He gasped and became airborne, dropping his Ashmore in mid-air. He landed hard on a jagged rock. Ignoring the brutal pain that wracked his back, he propped himself up on his elbows. The creature had punched him backward so far that it was no longer visible. He heard a horrible suction noise, and then a leg shot into view, the torso in tow.
The creature was again within inches of him.
And it had both of its hands again.
Cannopolis scrambled, kicking dust into the air. The creature shielded its face. Cannopolis jumped to his feet, knife brandished before him. His back ached with every movement.
The creature lifted its head to the sky and bellowed an indecipherable string of syllables, followed by a short wolf-like howl. Similar howls replied to the eerie call. Cannopolis capitalized on this and jumped forward, jabbing up beneath the creature’s jaw. The knife pierced through its neck at an upward angle. The creature opened its mouth and gurgled. Black blood sprayed Cannopolis. Through the open maw, he could see his knife running from tongue to palate.
The creature gripped Cannopolis’ hand and yanked downward, jerking the knife from its throat. Cannopolis reached around his back with his free hand and pulled his mini-Ashmore from the waistband of his pants. He aimed at the creature’s left eye and pulled the trigger. The small wooden stake plunked into the creature’s socket.
The creature’s throat was already healed. The wound to the eye, however, caused it to reel and screech in agony.
Cannopolis found renewed energy in the solace that he’d wounded this new creature. He aimed for the right eye and jabbed with his knife. It plunged in. The creature staggered backward, both hairy, scaled hands clawing at its horrid face. Black blood flowed through its fingers and dripped to the ground.
The pain in Cannopolis’ back depleted his surge of adrenaline. He fell to his hands and knees, sight hazy. The creature continued to step back, howling. Cannopolis took several deep breaths, then forced himself to stand. On his feet again, he stepped up to the creature and grabbed the hilt of his knife. He yanked it out, unwilling to be without some sort of commendable up-close weapon.
The creature stopped struggling and removed its hands from its face, leaning back to howl once more. This time, however, the howl wavered at intervals. Like a cry for help. Similar howls filled the cool night air. The pitches conveyed a varying amount of distance, but many were too close for comfort.
Cannopolis turned around and sprinted in the direction of the camp. He hadn’t gone but two steps when something hit him between the shoulder-blades. His breath caught in his throat and he fell face-first, stiff-legged, to the ground. He tried to get his arms beneath him, to roll over. None of his limbs responded to the desperate pleas within his mind.
Had his spine been severed? No! I won’t die like this! Cannopolis willed the fingers on his right hand to move. One twitched. Then another. He clenched and unclenched his fist, then placed his hand beneath his right side, pushed, and rolled over.
The ground trembled as five identical hulking creatures stepped into view. Fog rolled around them as if they were smoldering. Red eyes glowed near their ankles.
Wolves. A dozen, all with red eyes and mangy hair.
Two arms shot down from out of nowhere beside Cannopolis, surrounding him. Then the injured creature pulled into view, shooting in until its face was inches from his own. Its right eye was normal again, the left a mass of white goop.
The wolves encircled him as the creature remained pressed above. One wolf growled and snapped at the air. Its jaws unhinged. A forked tongue slid out and licked Cannopolis’ hand.
Undead wolves.
Cannopolis still clutched the mini-Ashmore in his left hand. He whipped it up, jabbed it into the creature’s chest, and fired six shots in rapid succession. The creature’s snarl turned into a grimace. It inched ever closer, opened its jaw, then fell onto Cannopolis.
The air rushed out of his lungs as the massive creature pressed down on him.
***
Strajowskie stood outside the main tent. Its flaps whipped behind him as fog snaked through the encampment. Four of his bodyguards surrounded him, mini-Ashmores held ready. “Real soldiers don’t cower at the first sign of trouble,” he shouted for all to hear. “And we don’t leave our general alone on the battlefield!”
Campfires blared. Soldiers hunkered down. Dark circles surrounded their eyes, their facial hair scruffy and long. They averted their eyes as he glared at them.
I was proud to serve in the Army, but I’d be ashamed if I’d had to fight beside these fucking numbskulls.
Strajowskie snarled, threw his hands up, and stomped through the center of the camp. The soldiers moved away before him like a wave. He stopped ten paces from Cannopolis’ tent and mounted the nearest ATV. His bodyguards followed suit. Powered by anger, Strajowskie cranked the throttle and kicked it into gear, rushing off into the night.
He sped forward, lights off. He wanted to locate Cannopolis as stealthily as possible in case the unknown assailants were still around. He twisted the throttle harder and clenched his jaw.
Cannopolis was dead. The reports he’d received gave him the inkling that whatever they were up against was beyond human comprehension. Cannopolis couldn’t have survived a fight with such creatures.
Time for tears would come later. Strajowskie hit the brakes on the ATV as he reached the crest of a small hill. He strained his ears. There it was: A blood-curdling howl filled with rage and fear and pain. Close proximity, within one hundred feet. He turned the machine off and whipped out his mini-Ashmore. His four bodyguards stopped their ATVs ten feet from his. They scrambled to keep up with him as he sprinted in the general direction of the sounds.
After fifty feet, he stopped and held up his hand. His bodyguards halted. He heard footsteps, then a loud rush of air. Something large fell to the ground. Strajowskie bent down to one knee. He patted the lump at his right ankle, assured that he had ample weapon supplies on hand.
He heard what sounded like licking, then low growls. They were still faint enough to be at least twenty feet away. The fog obstructed his vision. What was he about to rush into? He lowered himself to his belly and crawled ahead. He heard his bodyguards pull themselves on the ground behind him. At least he had back-up.
The Human-Undead War Trilogy (Book 1): Dark Intentions Page 12