The Human-Undead War Trilogy (Book 1): Dark Intentions (34 page)

“I tried to kill you. And Ruby,” John blurted out, eyes averted. His mouth went dry as the reality of it set in. “The first night or two you were here, I snuck into your room with every intention of killing you. Ruby was in there. I entertained the idea of throttling her as she slept.” 

Brian nodded and pursed his lips. When he finally broke the silence, his voice was low. “I deduced as much. We had our suspicions.” 

“I also hired the assassins.” John gulped. His hands shook and his voice was a harsh whisper. “I hired the three who tried to kill you. Both times. And I’d planned on killing you myself if they didn’t finish the job.” 

Brian sat down on a stool and rubbed his eyes. John’s knees wobbled. A heat wave roiled over him. He was about to faint. Would Brian attack? Would John die at the hands of the vampire who wanted to make him into a savior? Would he be unable to forgive John for his mistakes? 

“You weren’t in your right mind. No offense.” 

“There should be no excuses for my actions or thoughts. Barnaby befriended you too quickly. I was shunted away. You took my place. I wanted you dead for that.” 

“John, you weren’t conscious of what you were doing.” Brian disappeared and reappeared before him. “I forgive you,” he said, placing his hands upon John’s shoulders. 

A tear rolled down John’s cheek. Barnaby would’ve degraded him—brought him near to death and back to life again—had he confessed such a thing to the Undead leader. Brian had heard of a misconceived heroic deed from nearly a decade prior, known him for less than a week, and still forgave John, a man who had tried multiple times to ensure swift death to a perceived enemy. 

His lips trembled. “Th-Thank you.” Words he hadn’t heard nor uttered in so long. They didn’t burn his lips as he imagined they would. Instead, they were cool and comforting. “Will it hurt? Dying?” 

Brian tensed but didn’t release his gentle grip on John’s shoulders. “I honestly don’t know.” 

“I don’t want it to hurt. I don’t want to die in pain.” 

Brian was silent. 

“I won’t continue to live, will I?” 

The vampire hesitated. “I don’t think so, no. I think your body will continue to exist so long as that particular mushroom survives. But I believe your consciousness will cease to exist.” 

“My mind? My soul, you mean? It will pass on?” 

“I believe so, yes.” 

John smiled. Another tear spilled down his cheek. As he and the kind scientist stared at each other, John’s conscience screamed at him to reveal more. To reveal Barnaby’s plot. To reveal the truth about magic and its existence. Brian had every right to know about the intricacies of the Undead world he’d only recently embraced. 

He hesitated. An inner voice urged him to speak, to reveal what he could, but he didn’t open his mouth. 

He couldn’t. He couldn’t ruin Brian’s world perception. 

For the truth would do so. 

Brian released his hold. “If there’s anything else you want to get done before the procedure, now would be the time.” 

John nodded, turned, and exited the laboratory. He trekked through the castle in a daze, heading back to his bedchamber, to the cell phone on his table. This was it. He was about to die. He reminded himself it was for sweet revenge upon Barnaby and for the sake of humanity. But he wasn’t so sure it wasn’t just greed and selfishness. Catherine waited on the other side, and he longed to see her once again. 

Minutes later, he picked up the phone and dialed. It rang twice and then he heard the voice. The one he remembered as Roterie. “Yes, this is Ashmore from Haven. I’d like to speak to General Hammers.”  

He paused, waiting for the inevitable muffled conversation on the other end. Then Roterie asked the obvious question.  

“Yes,” John replied. “Yes, this actually is about Frank.” 

Chapter 41

“Out!” 

Strajowskie hauled himself out of the trench. His arms shook from the extraneous physical battles he’d entertained of late and lack of sleep. Without looking to see if the medics stationed beside the cannon were paying attention, he held up two fingers to signify the amount of wounded who needed to be extracted from the trench. Then he gripped his machete with both hands and dug his heels in. 

Soldiers scrambled out beside him, fresh replacements from the encampment half a mile away on US Highway 77. They fanned out to form a reverse triangular formation. He was the ‘tip’ of the human-formed arrowhead, closest to the trench. Any attacker filtering into the pass would meet too much resistance and be surrounded.  

The pass had become the Undead’s primary focal point. The beasts had retreated from the bluffs due to their uncanny inability to glance upward and defend themselves. Mist vampires comprised the majority of the front line now. Even their strange powers were no match for the cannon. 

Bodies scrambled all around him, and Strajowskie reveled in the chaos. It was obvious that Hammers was not romping and frolicking on the battlefield. Not only was there no apparent order or direction being given, but also the sun had not yet set for the evening. The Undead general—as powerful as he was—hadn’t been blessed with the ability to withstand daylight. Who commanded in his absence, Strajowskie did not know. He assumed nobody did. 

Which was fine by him.              

No vampires were able to fight their way to his position before Cannopolis’ baritone voice rang out, “Down!” Strajowskie whirled about-face and hopped into the six-foot deep trench. His soldiers jumped in as well, dragging the wounded who had fallen in the scuffle.  

A loud report echoed in the pass, like that of a gigantic firework set off in close proximity. Strajowskie glanced up, still amazed with the cannon’s simple technology. Arrows flew overhead. Screams erupted and ash spewed into the trench. Strajowskie shielded his eyes and waited. 

“Out!” 

Strajowskie pulled himself up and held up three fingers. The other soldiers guarding the pass scrambled out and took formation. Metal clanged, uncomfortably close. Strajowskie brought his machete around and parried a set of wicked black claws. Soldiers surrounded him then. With precise hacks and slices, they brought the rogue vampire down. It didn’t burst into ash but heaped up before the trench with other non-disintegrating Undead. Strajowskie hoped the soldiers at the head of the formation held their ground. 

“Down!” 

He slid into the trench. Three wounded. One soldier sat on the ground inside the trench, crying. Strajowskie shook his head. It was war. It was the Army. 
If you can’t handle it, get the fuck out. 
He bit his tongue. Cull the weak from the strong. 

The canister’s spray of arrows was unleashed upon the approaching Undead. More screams. More ash. 

“Out!”  

He hauled himself up once again and held up four fingers. Before every able-bodied soldier could get out and into formation, the Undead were upon them. A vampire appeared beside Strajowskie, one hand back, ready to swing and rip his head off. An arrow fell from the sky and drilled into its head. It burst into ash. Without looking up, Strajowskie waved at the adjacent bluff. The archer who had saved his life would have to be thanked later. 

Trusting Cannopolis to allow them ample time to clear the bustling pass, he and his soldiers drove the mass of Undead far enough back to prevent them from overtaking the trench during the withdrawal. As he’d suspected, Cannopolis’ voice then bellowed, “Down!” and they dove into the trench. No wounded this time, but a medic slid into the trench as Strajowskie slouched against the dirt wall. 

“Mr. President!” the medic shouted as the cannon erupted. “We’re approaching maximum capacity. Ten more and we’ll have to clear the wounded from the encampment. Orders, sir?” 

Strajowskie grunted and wiped the sweat from his brow. He hadn’t even thought of overcrowding. It seemed moot, given they were in the midst of a full-blown battle. “Consult with General Cannopolis!” he shouted over the screams of the Undead. 

“He said to get with you, sir. Something about Drake’s tinkering being done, didn’t have time to mess with bullshit.” 

“And I do?” Strajowskie smirked. “Pull ‘em out. Make adequate room within the encampment. And tell that bumble-headed general to wait for my damn orders before fucking with Drake’s invention!” 

The medic saluted. Cannopolis bellowed above the din of dying and infuriated Undead. Strajowskie climbed out of the trench and shivered. The humidity and heat were gone. He glanced over his shoulder.  

The sun painted the western front a brilliant shade of pink, then sank below the horizon. 

***

Hammers’ eyes crackled with energy, spitting sporadic red bolts. They skipped down his face, then hopped away to the ground like forlorn droplets of rain. The cellular phone fell from his hand and shattered against concrete.  

Strangely, he believed the old codger Ashmore. His voice had been steady, no hint of deceit. It was unlike the pathetic human to lie. 

So it had to be true. 

Frank was gone. Forever.  

“Did you hear my report, General Hammers?” Roterie bent and picked up pieces of the phone. 

Hammers glanced at his scout, his fury building. He had the sudden urge to maim everything in sight, including the young scout. 

“The sun has set, sir. The regulars and jackals are ready.” 

Numb, Hammers stepped past Roterie. The old do-it-yourself pizzeria had offered all of the sanctity it could. With the sun gone, he no longer needed shade. He rounded the corner of the pizzeria and turned west. A small group of jackals huddled yards away. They turned and raised their ugly brows in greeting, stepping forward. He resisted the primal instinct to mutilate them. He ignored them and sped south until he reached the broken asphalt of what had once been Sixth Street, then turned west again.  

There was scuffling behind him. He glanced over his shoulder. Thousands of jackals marched, Roterie scrambling at the forefront. The wild-maned vampire raised an eyebrow. Hammers ignored the unspoken question, allowing the tumultuous anger to take control. 

He reached the main body of the Undead Army. Sixth and Eisenhower. Packed to the brim. Arrows rained down from the bluff on his left, precise even from such a long range. He magnified his sight and glared at the pass ahead. Such a pathetic location to make a final stand, but he gave the humans credit. The bodies were piling up.  

He placed his hands on his hips, electricity raining from his eyes. His entire body quaked with energy. Mutilating fragile human bodies seemed an interesting enough way to release his anguish upon the world. He could think of no other way to avenge his son. However, he had to get through his own men in order to decimate the humans. 

What Hammers really desired was vengeance, but Barnaby was untouchable. Soon, if he found what he wanted in Egypt, Barnaby would truly rule the world and would become ever more powerful. To stand against him meant death. And Hammers had become an Undead for three reasons: Because they were the ultimate evolution of humanity, because they couldn’t be beaten, and, most of all, because he wanted to live forever. 

Killing countless souls on the battlefield would suffice. For now. 

He grinned. Electricity skipped down his cheek and into his mouth, tickling the tip of his tongue.  

Countless souls. 
 

Dead or Undead
. 

***

The red electricity that had been pulsating about the frame of Hammers’ body exploded outward like a supernova. A heinous note spewed from his mouth, sorrowful and angry at the same time. The gigantic Undead general barreled into a group of mist wraiths without regard and flicked his claws in every direction, rending heads from necks. Undead fell all about, most erupting into clouds of ash before their poor brains could register what had occurred. 

Roterie skidded to a halt before the massive battalion of jackals, mouth agape. Was this the moment Barnaby had promised him? The prospect thrilled him. The Undead had ranks like the Human Army, and Barnaby would choose the next in line to become the Undead general. 

And he had promised that position to Roterie. 

Undead scattered away from Hammers’ reach, yet they still fell by the dozens. The lame-brained jackals surrounding Roterie grumbled but made no effort to take the berserker Undead down. Nobody dared defy the general. They would follow their leader on the battlefield through anything. Hammers was as feared almost as much as Barnaby. 

Roterie smiled and shook his wild mane in glee. They would fear him too. In due time. When they discovered that he was the byproduct of two byproducts: The first ever jackal and mist wraith crossbreed. He bore no resemblance to the disfigured and brutish jackals, yet possessed all of their abilities, plus the mist wraith powers.  

Barnaby had heralded him as the future of the Undead. There would be many more mist jackals, but he would always be the first. After becoming general, it was inevitable that Roterie would one day take the Undead throne, when Barnaby was dead or exhausted with it.  

It helped that Barnaby had a thing for his sister, too. 

Roterie liked the level of mutual respect they shared. In an attempt to prove his worth and virtue, Roterie had requested to kidnap the two sluggish scientists. His reward had been handsome. Priceless artifacts from Egypt had been handed over like candy, and his eventual position had been secured.  

Then Barnaby had tasked him with the duty of keeping a watchful eye on Hammers, the Undead who had forsaken humanity to spite a father-figure yet still showed a kinship with the weak humans. Acting as a meager scout for the Undead Army, Roterie took stock of the general’s personality conflicts. Barnaby had known, in a moment that would catapult a greater Undead into infamy, the general would falter. 

And Roterie wanted to savor his rise to power. 

***

Strajowskie’s arms almost buckled as he hauled himself out of the trench yet again. His hair was matted to his forehead, still sopping wet from the day’s humidity and heat, from physical exertion. He was but a drone, an airplane set to auto-pilot. Parry, parry, strike, strike, strike, stop. Wait for the shout, retreat, take a breather, jump out, repeat. 

A figure approached. He stabbed out with his machete and his foe slumped, impaled by the blade. Cannopolis shouted. Strajowskie turned and prepared to hop into the trench. He wouldn’t be able to hop much longer. The tightly packed dirt hole was jolting his knees, and his joints were on fire. 

He flexed his muscles to spring forward, and then cursed. He was shaking so much from exhaustion that even his vision was skewed. 

No, his body wasn’t shaking.              

It was being shaken. 

He turned around. Even with blurred vision there was no mistaking the shapes heading his way. There, trudging around the bend from Eisenhower Street, was a large group—thousands—of the ugly stretching beasts. Leading them was the strangest and shortest one he’d yet seen. It flung its own brothers into the air without regard. It glowed like embers, and red electricity flared around its silhouette. 

Strajowskie peered across the trench to the cannon. He made a whirligig motion with his right hand, hoping they’d get the hint. Two of his soldiers burst out of the trench and ran past him. Metal clanged; Undead hissed; humans grunted. Strajowskie had left his backside exposed for far too long and almost paid the price. 

Shouts rang out from the trio stationed at the cannon. Hands cupped to mouths in a futile attempt to project garbled phrases. Their actions were hurried. Frantic. 

Keith ran to the barrel of the cannon and pointed with his bionic arm. He then made a motion with his hands as if stuffing a turkey. Strajowskie glanced back over his shoulder. 

The herd of beasts was closing the distance.  

He yanked on the collars of the two brave privates guarding his rear and dove into the trench. 

***

Hammers could see it, there on the crest of the hill within the passage. The bulky shape would not deter him, though. He cared not what it was—whether it was a human brigade or a tank or just his imagination. It wouldn’t remain stationary for long. The pass would fall. The western half of the country would belong to them.  

Hundreds, if not thousands, of Undead would be slain by their battlefield leader, and their political leader in Haven wouldn’t be the wiser. 

He glanced right, down Rucker Road. It was overrun with Undead, all the way to the foot of the bluffs. Not a human in sight, but the front line was thick with vampires. Too thick. 

A vampire crashed into his chest and stumbled to the ground, eyes wide. Hammers grinned. He reached down and gripped the bewildered Undead by its shoulders. Once it was eye-level, he shouted, “Aren’t you running the wrong way?” 

A deafening explosion rocked the tight passage, drowning out the Undead private’s stammered response. Hammers shook his head in disgust. The private’s response didn’t matter anyway. He was running from the battlefield.