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

by Jonathan Edwardk Ondrashek

  Vincent narrowed his eyes. He never had liked the old man. Always Barnaby’s favorite. Always protected. Barnaby allowed him to live. Hell, forced him to live. He wasn’t sure why the vampire leader kept the old man around. Pity, perhaps? “Then there will be no deaths tonight. No deaths until we get what we want.”

  “But the Master will re—”

  Vincent felt his eyes blaze. “Enough!” he roared. He reached out and gripped the old man by his throat, his fingernails breaking skin. “I am sick and fucking tired of hearing your complaints. Using Barnaby as a shield is over. If you don’t deliver before he returns, you’re dead.”

  Ashmore gasped and wheezed, eyes wide. Small streams of blood trickled down his neck. Vincent suddenly realized what he had done. He’d gotten in many a fight, but he still hadn’t learned how to pick them.

  He had no choice but to follow through. He maintained gusto in his voice. “If you choose wisely, nobody hears of our deal, no one hears of this. No one hears of anything. You live and the scientists die.” Vincent released his hold and brought his arm to his side. He flared his white eyes. “Understood?”

  The frail human nodded, still wheezing.

  Vincent patted Ashmore on the shoulder, mock-friendly. He turned about, knowing the old man would indeed choose wisely. He was a coward. Vincent had put up with his sniveling ass for far too long. Ashmore was nothing but a cold sore on Barnaby’s reign as Undead leader. A meaningless sack of meat wandering through the vampire society like he belonged there.

  Vincent’s fears of Barnaby were of no consequence. It was time to teach the old man a lesson. The feeble meat-sack finally understood his place in the hierarchy of the vampire society: Somewhere at the bottom. At best.

  He was, of course, quite fearful of the repercussions should Barnaby find out what had transpired: That he had threatened his little puppet, caused Ashmore physical harm. Vincent had witnessed the death of Frank Hammers. He knew the reason behind it.

  He’d been the one who’d hired the druggie to kill Ashmore several weeks ago.

  And he didn’t want to end up like Frank.

  ***

  John brought his hands away from the wounds and grimaced. Blood soaked every groove and wrinkle of his palms. He would need the priests, the wondrous maggots and leeches.

  You will make him pay! You will destroy him for messing with you!

  Yes, John thought. After he kills the scientists.

  And the Master will never be the wiser!

  John stumbled toward the priests’ chambers. He would lie to them, tell them he’d bumped into a drunkard, that the vampire had lashed out in a drunken rage. They would never tell the Master. He would walk away, healed. He would make a phone call.

  And then he would plot more with the interesting, solitary voice now whispering in his head.

  ***

  Hammers paced inside his momentary daylight sanctuary: An abandoned gas station in Grandview Plaza. His scouts had informed him that the Human Army was outside Junction City, stationed on the abandoned old Highway Seventy-Seven. With its size, the Human Army likely extended to Chapman, to the south and west.

  When he’d read the sign on the way through the ravaged town, he couldn’t believe his luck. It’d been years since he’d been that close to his home base of Fort Riley, Kansas.

  How fitting that the war would end on his old turf.

  He heard the engines again and gazed through a shattered window. A tiny spot on the horizon, north. That damned plane. Hammers felt like he was being herded. He didn’t like that.

  Footsteps disturbed his thoughts. The young scout, Roterie, marched through the front door, shimmering between mist and solid forms. Hammers had taken a liking to the youngster. Reminded him of himself at that age. Roterie’s position as a scout implied stealth, wit, and cunning. He would rise through the ranks quickly. Provided, of course, that he survived the war.

  Roterie saluted, waited for Hammers to return the respect, then pulled out a cell phone. He covered the speaker. “General Hammers, it’s John Ashmore from Haven. He wishes to speak to you.”

  Hammers scowled. He snatched the phone from Roterie and pressed it to his ear. “Any news of my son, Ashmore?”

  “No,” replied a timid voice. “It’s as if he disappeared completely.”

  “Then why are you calling me?”

  There was an audible gulp. Hammers imagined the old emissary fidgeting. He reveled in making humans squirm.

  “I need—”

  Hammers handed the phone back to Roterie. “Give him whatever the fuck he wants. Any more calls from him, you ask if it pertains to Frank. If it doesn’t, keep him out of my hair. Can you handle that, private?”

  Roterie nodded. “Yes, sir.” He saluted, then turned away, phone at his ear. “Wait, Mr. Ashmore. Wait. This is Private Roterie again. General Hammers has other business to tend to. Now, what were you needing?”

  Hammers smiled and turned back to the window as the scout exited. The plane was gone again. He looked west. A bridge ran several hundred yards from his position, then a long stretch of asphalt was nestled between two fields. Another bridge was visible on the horizon, leading into Junction City. Where they had all begun their career together. Where it would all end.

  And if he was unable to succeed, it wouldn’t be long before Barnaby enacted his plans anyway.

  The war—and all of humanity—would end then.

  His stomach growled. He wasn’t accustomed to daylight hours. He’d underestimated the speed of the humans. Tens of thousands of hungry, battle-weary primates had covered twenty miles in less than twelve hours. So he’d stayed awake during the day to remain informed of any other sudden movements.

  He walked to the closed bathroom door and wrenched the rickety thing off its hinges. Two human spoils of war huddled inside, bound and gagged.

  Dinner is served.

  ***

  John smiled and placed the phone on the table in his living quarters. He hadn’t had to beg or explain. Hammers was giving him whatever he desired. Vince would get what he wanted, John would get what he wanted, and he would be back at his master’s side, where he belonged.

  He meandered through the labyrinth of underground hallways and hidden doors, finally making his way out into the courtyard. He’d forgotten to grab his robe, and for the first time in years he walked with his head high, making eye contact with any Undead who obliged. The voice reassured him. Its soothing words drowned out his desire to hide from the fiends surrounding him.

  Everyone will die, tell Vince the news (great news!), the scientists will die (as planned), push your way through the crowd, John, push them, there you go, hold your head high, let them know you are not afraid, not afraid at all, Vince will die (for harming me), let the scientists die first, then kill Vince, push them, John, push them (I am!), they are moving for you, they are afraid of you, they will not touch you or harm you, the Master will not allow it (never!), the Master will come home and be happy to have you at his side again, offering guidance (like I used to), find Vince, tell him the deal is on, find him, there he is (I see him), walk up slowly, do not alert him, he will harm you (no), no, he will pay for harming you, he will die.

  John motioned Vince away from the rowdy crowd of thugs barring access to him. Vince left the group with Rufus and Gunther in tow, as usual.

  “The supply will be in tomorrow morning,” John said, keeping his distance.

  Vince appeared beside John and clapped him on the shoulder. He recoiled, remembering the wounds inflicted but an hour ago. He didn’t want to feel those sharp nails ever again. And he would make certain he didn’t.

  Jet engines blasted over the din of the nighttime Undead society. All heads turned to regard the Master’s private Harrier Jump Jet lifting off the top of Safehold Keep. It hung before the half moon, dark, wings like a bat, then sped off, flying west over the courtyard.

  “For your sake, you better hope they return before tomorrow evening,” Vince replied. The Undea
d assassin turned away and walked back to his thuggish friends.

  John turned away, chewing on his lip. Where are those two going at this hour?

  They will be back! Fate calls for it!

  John nodded, shoving several stumbling vampires out of his path. They grunted, recognized him, and slunk into the shadows. He decided against going to the nearest hidden entrance and instead opted to cut through the middle of the courtyard. His confidence was unwavering. He wished to relish in it.

  Do vampires feel like this all the time? Free, powerful, unstoppable? If so, he envied them. Sort of.

  He pushed his way through to the drawbridge of Safehold and rushed to his master’s chamber, ambling through the Statue Room, through the doors. A stockpile of confiscated weaponry lay beneath the Master’s bone throne. John had seen it there many times, when groveling or lying on the floor injured after his master’s rants.

  He plucked a large crossbow out of the pile and slid back through the doors, making his way to the hidden passageways.

  It didn’t hurt to help even out the odds.

  The voice struck up a conversation, old pals, once more running through the plan that would be Vince’s demise.

  Chapter 34

  Ruby sank into the seat, holding her steaming cup of hot chocolate as if it were a nuclear warhead. She avoided Brian’s elbows as he click-clacked away on the jet’s portable laptop. She sipped the hot liquid and sighed.

  As soon as they had landed in Los Angeles, Brian had delivered as promised, locating an Italian restaurant near the Good Samaritan Hospital using only his nose. Bottega Louie. Their menu was chock-full of great dishes and the atmosphere, food, and service were better than expected. Brian had enjoyed a glass of wine with her, feigning interest in the food to keep the friendly staff from discovering what species he was. Afterward, he’d slurred his way through a scientific reason as to why the one glass of wine made him as inebriated as a lush downing a gallon of Vodka in five minutes.

  She’d laughed. She’d enjoyed the great company. She couldn’t have asked for more.

  Then they’d rushed to the Hospital and waited two hours before the staff released his medical documents to him (a call to the White House for identification verification had finally gotten them to pull the files). Since then, he’d been immersed in research, digging through the paperwork. He’d offered some grunts and harrumphs, a few muttered words she couldn’t discern.

  But all in all, he’d ignored her completely.

  “Damn,” he muttered, fingers tapping away. “I’ve searched the remaining hospitals in the United States. Nothing. Not even the Human Army stores it. I’ve got to go overseas.”

  “It’s that rare?”

  He nodded, eyes fixated on the pixilated screen. “The current population leaves me maybe four, five individuals in this world who can help me.”

  The jet hit a pocket of air. The turbulence ended as abruptly as it began. Ruby steadied her cup and closed her eyes. The clickity-clack of never-ending keystrokes lulled her into a false sense of comfort.

  Brian had proven that becoming a vampire hadn’t diminished his sense of chivalry. At the restaurant, he’d held the door, pulled out the chair. He’d given her his undivided attention. Then, at the hospital, it all stopped. She’d known how important his work was to him even prior to ever meeting him.

  Then why did dating an Undead scientist seem futile? There could be no true passion between them. No long-term relationship. Was she making a mistake by attempting to thwart his personal barriers?

  Was she making a mistake by falling in love with a vampire?

  ***

  Strajowskie paced outside the main encampment, atop the bluff that would be their fallback point. He breathed in the rich Midwestern air. Birds chirped in the trees as the evening sun blazed overhead.

  He could see it there, on the horizon: A smog-like appearance in the center of Junction City, where Jackson Street met Sixth Street. Visible trees were bare, charred, wilted. Buildings stood decrepit, abandoned. Nothing moved.

  Another day had passed since the Undead masses had holed themselves up in what was once known as Grandview Plaza. Strajowskie was surprised Hammers hadn’t yet pursued them further. The delay in attack, however, worked toward the new plan, which Strajowskie had decided was more logical and steady-headed. He could learn a lot from those few members who had persuaded him to prolong the inevitable destruction of the Undead.

  Would he still order a fall back to the bluff positions in six days? He was uncertain. If he could buy Brian more time, that would be in the best interest of everyone. Or so he’d been told.

  He shook his head. Brian was brilliant but not that brilliant. One week. What could the newly transformed Undead scientist possibly accomplish in so little time?

  Strajowskie could ignore notions of harmonic coexistence altogether. He could end the war on their turf, gain back the country. Hold the perimeters. Repopulate the world. Drive the blood-suckers back into secrecy. Rebuild the planet.

  He could ignore buying Brian time and end it all. Now.

  Once again, the fate of the world was in his hands.

  He sighed and put his hands up, palms out. The breeze spoke to him as it had before he’d been sworn into office. Back then, he’d been attuned to the Earth, to the elements. A supreme consciousness that allowed him an understanding of the world surrounding him. A man was only as strong as his environment. If he knew nothing about it, the Earth itself could be his demise. And Strajowskie had gotten closer to Mother Nature again while leading in Cannopolis’ absence. The smells, the sounds, the softness or hardness of the ground around him—it was all coming back.

  Keith had been wise in suggesting those particular bluffs. Not only would they gain an advantage over the giant Undead beasts, but they could use the landscape as a shield. The plane had been filled back up with the cement mix, and a ready supply was stored in Salina. Everything—human, machine, land—would work together in harmony.

  The bluffs spoke to Strajowskie, stroking his ego. Yes, this is the place, the perfect place. He would take the stand-still in stride, waiting out the Undead until they attacked. And then he would improvise. It mattered not what path he chose to take, or what path he wished to take to help Brian. He would make that decision based on the ferocity of the imminent clash.

  What mattered was bringing humanity back to its rightful place in the world, by any means necessary.

  ***

  Brian opened his eyes and sat up. He squinted at the window and stretched. It wasn’t morning yet. Sleep had evaded him until only an hour ago, yet he was rejuvenated. His work beckoned him to run to the lab, pull out a laptop, and sift through data to find what he sought.

  A pleasurable moan escaped Ruby, who lay beside him. The bed sheets hugged her curves. He caught a glimpse of her exposed legs. Ogling Ruby had become a pastime. Shame didn’t throttle him. He was obeying natural instincts of arousal, which had been amplified since he’d joined the Undead.

  He threw his legs over the side of the bed. His ankles popped in protest. He bent for his clothing and stood. He put on his shirt and kept a watchful eye on Ruby. Although his super-sensitive hearing caught the rustle of clothing and the whoosh of air as he slipped into his shoes, he cared not to awaken her from her slumber. She always looked so peaceful when she slept.

  He crossed the room, cringing as his footsteps echoed. The hidden entrance slid open. He stepped through, tapped the stone that closed the door, and headed for the laboratory. He strolled through the hidden hallways, shaking off the fog of sleep. He would need every ounce of mental muscle to find the blood he needed to bring the platelet to life.

  He crossed through a four-way intersection. A shadow approached from the right. Another approached from the left.

  And in front of Brian, the tall white-eyed vampire who’d attacked him almost two weeks prior appeared, face contorted by hatred. Brian took a tentative step back.

  The vampire’s white eyes crackled
and flared, darkening the bags beneath them more so. He snarled like a caged, feral wolverine. “I owe you one.”

  He thrust his hands out before him. His forearm skin was mottled, pocketed like a twenty-year-old’s face from prepubescent acne. Brian recoiled, recalling the outcome of their first tangle.

  Hands grabbed him from both sides, pinning his arms. Without looking, he knew they were the other two goons—fat, goofy Rufus and the heavyset, white-streaked bearded one.

  The lanky leader stepped forth. His voice was low. “You see, lad, I don’t take kindly to being shown up like that. It was disrespectful, painful, and downright offensive.”

  Brian gulped. “You attacked me.”

  “Touché!” The fiery white-eyed vampire chuckled. “If I didn’t truly despise you for forever scarring me, I think we’d get along quite well. But as it stands, lad, there’s only one thing that will make this all better.”

  The heavy-set one whispered in his ear, “And it ain’t gonna be purty!”

  Flashbacks from the first attack popped into Brian’s mind. Disoriented, he ripped from their grasp and took to the air, calling on the winds of levitation. He slammed into the hallway ceiling, nearly losing his control over the winds.

  The skinny leader squatted and exploded from the floor in the same superhero stance from their first tussle. Brian avoided bony knuckles to the temple by scant millimeters. Suspended and floating backward, he kicked out. His foot connected. The white-eyed vampire grunted. Blood speckled Brian’s shoe. The vampire fell to the floor, shrieking and cursing.

  The muscular one reached up and grabbed Brian’s ankles. He tried to kick his way out of the grasp, to no avail. Rufus was before him then, bulbous chins flapping. He swung. Brian blocked the rapid-fire midair haymakers, unable to retreat or change position with his legs pinned. His winds kept him aloft, pulling away from the muscular one. Opposing forces threatened to rip him apart, but his new genetics kept the unbearable pain at ease.

  His feeble attempts to ward off Rufus’ blows couldn’t keep the bulbous Undead at bay for long, however.