The Human-Undead War Trilogy (Book 1): Dark Intentions (26 page)

Chapter 33

The vein had collapsed again. The other pinpricks dotting his skin had healed over already. Brian grunted and threw the syringe. It clattered atop a pile of dozens more syringes on the countertop. He’d spent several boxes of them, all with the same conclusion: His veins wouldn’t remain open long enough to extract his own blood for a sample, let alone allow him to be hooked to a dialysis machine.

A full day had passed, yet his growing frustrations had compelled him to continue trying. Without sleep or feeding. Even when Ruby had returned that morning and evening, he’d insisted he be left alone to try again. And again.

He’d considered going out into the square to find some hapless drunkard Undead who could be coaxed into becoming a lab-rat. But that, too, would be pointless. The experiment wouldn’t work on vampires. It didn’t work on Keith. It probably wouldn’t work on other humans either. 

It had only worked on Brian, when he’d been human.

He sat on a stool and massaged his temples, wishing for a reprieve from his frustration. He stared at a flawless marble countertop across the room. Jars of specimens resting beneath stainless steel cupboards caught his eye. He stopped massaging and willed his sight to focus and sharpen until each item inside the jars was right before him. 

The first jar contained a fetus. Primate, hairless, sightless. He couldn’t discern if it was human or vampire. But Barnaby had stated that bearing children as a vampire was impossible and would be an abomination, so Brian assumed it was human. 

The next jar had no label and contained a white powdery substance. Brian induced his extra-strength sense of smell but was unable to define any specific scent amidst the aromas of animal urine and feces. Powder in a scientist’s laboratory could be anything: Deadly, harmless, illegal. It was best to pass it up and leave it alone.

He peered at the third one and paused. Leeches. A handful of them in liquid, floating.

He blinked. Did one just move?

Brian stood and sped to the jar. The leeches slithered anew. The liquid wasn’t clear like water; it had a yellow-green tint. He reached out tentatively and raised the jar to his face, then popped the lid and inhaled. 

The jar crashed to the floor. Brian staggered, shielding his sensitive nostrils. Leeches flopped around. Formaldehyde solution splattered equipment, his shoes, his pants. He hesitated, staring at the leeches. They couldn’t survive in formalin.

They had to be Undead.

He let out an exasperated “Huh!” and fumbled with several drawers and cabinets, trying to locate some towels. The stench was overwhelming. He thought about rushing out of the room but dared not leave the hapless Undead leeches lay about to wither away. Though they were simple creatures and their deaths would affect him not, he was intrigued. He paused in his search for cleaning supplies and observed one of the flopping parasites.

They had to be a vampire breed. Did they function the opposite of their living counterparts? Did they leech blood away and inflict harm, or did they function like normal, by repairing and helping blood flow?

He finally found a bundle of plain white hand towels and wiped up all the formaldehyde solution, using his vampire speed to quicken the process. Within seconds, all the liquid was gone, all the glass disposed of, and the leeches were scooped up and placed onto a countertop. He located an empty mason jar but couldn’t find any more formalin. 

He picked up the leeches and placed them into the new jar. As he touched the final one, it latched onto his thumb violently. Tiny fangs slid into his flesh. He shook his hand, but the little bloodsucker was latched on tight. It quivered and squirmed, taking its meal.

Then the fattened creature slid off his finger, fell to the countertop, and burst into ash.

Brian scrunched his face up and swept the ashes with a towel. The leeches couldn’t survive off his blood. The platelet mushroom had only worked with his blood. It could create, it could destroy. What was it about his blood? What made it so damned special? 

His mouth dropped and he paused in mid-wipe. That’s it. Holy shit, that’s it!

He finished cleaning up his mess, found a few ounces of formaldehyde solution in a supply cabinet, filled up the leech jar, and rushed back to his room. 

He burst through the hidden entrance. Ruby slept on her bed, covered to her neck by a thin sheet. He zipped over to her and nudged her awake. 

She rubbed her eyes and sat up. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“I’ve been going about it all wrong. It’s always been about me.”

Ruby stood and looped her arms about his neck. Brilliant moonlight shone upon her smooth skin. She smirked and swiped at the hair on his forehead. “A little brass.”

Brian leaned until their noses touched. It was difficult for him to rein in his excitement. It’d been right in front of him all along. He kissed Ruby, the winds of elation on his back. “We need to make another trip. I’ll explain everything on the way there. And if we hurry, I’ll take you to the finest diner Los Angeles offers.”

“Los Angeles?”

He grasped her hand, interlacing their fingers. “All of my human medical documentation is there.”

***

“Tonight, Ashmore. I want them tonight,” Vincent said.

“Hammers knows he is gone. I can’t convince him to send additional humans in the Master’s absence.”

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.