The Human-Undead War Trilogy (Book 1): Dark Intentions (29 page)

Chapter 36

Strajowskie felt the ground rumble before the herd of Undead ambled into view. Nearly midnight. As good a time as any for war. 

He stood at the intersection of Sixth and Eisenhower, the decrepit high school several blocks to his left, a gas station to his right. Cannopolis was beside him, his arms out of the casts. It’d been too early to remove them, yet Cannopolis had insisted. He had also insisted that he be the commander of the retreat once Strajowskie ordered it.  

The president had obliged without hesitation. The general needed to be on the battlefield. It was in his blood.

But until Cannopolis was fully healed, it was 
his
 show. 

Strajowskie double-checked his men. A full day of rest had them sharp and alert, battle-ready. Colonel Drake had done a good job in suiting them up in excess Kevlar. They weren’t taking any more chances. It was best to be bogged down by armor versus being mowed down  by gunfire.  

He glanced over his shoulder. A silhouette poked above the hill leading out of Junction City. A monstrous canvas hid their secret weapon from view. The cover trench was built on the crest of the western downward slope. Traps and pitfalls were set.  

Wild blood-curdling shrieks rent the still air and brought his attention back to the east. Hundreds of lumbering giants extended arms and legs as they filtered through the abandoned buildings, overtaking their comrades of normal stature. Dozens of the beasts smashed through the movie theater a block away.  

He cringed and nodded at everyone within reach. Cannopolis’ wheelchair sped toward the hill behind them. Shouts broke out. Archers took to the high ground, atop the bluff that overlooked the gas station. Foot soldiers scurried and lined up in front of Eisenhower Street, thirty lines deep. The second offensive wave took to the ravine, hiding behind trees and foliage. Dozens of other battalions were stationed behind the newly-dug trench.  

The lights of the plane approached from the east, over a mile away. Beneath the plane, the eastern horizon crawled with shadows. Undead numbers seemed to have doubled since their last battle.  

Ragged and unorganized Undead lines formed across from them. Hammers pushed his way through his first jagged line of defense. Shoulders back, head high, with a smug expression, he held his hand up and broke away from his soldiers. 

Strajowskie did likewise. 

***

The old man hobbled. The baldness, the wrinkles, the stiff and awkward jolting movements: Strajowskie had lost his youth. Perhaps compensation was his reason for being on the battlefield. 

Or perhaps it was because Cannopolis was still healing. 

Hammers chuckled, picking his way across the busted asphalt that had once been Sixth Street. His once-brother, feeble. His old father figure, feeble. He was glad he’d joined the ranks of the Undead. If he’d remained human, he’d be experiencing the decay of age like the rest of them. 

Joining the Undead had been the wisest choice he’d ever made. The events surrounding the SADAH missions had compelled him to believe humanity was doomed. But had it not been for those events, he would never have truly known how great his current brethren were. He’d witnessed their powers, their invincibility. He’d yearned for the same. 

And after his transformation, he’d immediately gone home to convince his wife and child to join him too. His wife had refused. 

So he killed her. 

She’d lain on the tiled floor at his feet, a puddle of blood pooling beneath her twisted head. Frank had sat beside her, sobbing. Hammers had offered his son the gift he’d been granted and demanded that he make the choice or die with his mother. Frank had surprised him, accepting the offer while mourning. Hammers had lifted Frank by the shoulders and hugged him for his bravery. The first time he’d ever hugged him.  

Then he’d driven his fangs into Frank’s neck, creating a familial bond that would last forever. 

Hammers frowned. He hadn’t heard back from Ashmore yet. Frank was prone to disappear for weeks—months, sometimes—on end. However, he often left specifics: Where he was going and why, how long he’d be gone. It was unlike him to take off without a word. 

He and Strajowskie were only several paces away from each other. Hammers stopped, clearing thoughts about his son from his mind. They did their usual head-nods, eyeing each other with suspicion.  

“Looks like a bunch of kindergarteners out there lining up after recess.”  

“We’re fucking dead. Perfect formations are for the living.” 

Strajowskie guffawed. One of those fake fatherly laughs. “Kind of hard to maneuver when you don’t know where one battalion ends and the other begins, no?” 

“Not really. We don’t even need a game plan like you do. I tell them to kill, they do. They run when I say and come back when I say. Everything else is instinct.” 

“I thought I taught you better than that.” 

“I’ve learned more from Barnaby, and I don’t even talk to him.” 

Strajowskie clenched his jaw. “You know, he couldn’t have picked a more suitable commander. A man—er, vampire—who has no plan of action, no disciplinary structure, leading the ragtag bunch of Undead on the battlefield? Brilliant.” 

Hammers snarled. “I climbed the ranks faster than you ever could’ve. I command an army that’s larger than yours. You should be proud of me, old man.” 

“You haven’t made me proud yet.” 

Hammers stepped up to the president and whispered, “Maybe today I’ll get the chance.” He turned around and called over his shoulder, “This is our final civil meeting, old man.” 

“Then we share the same feelings,” Strajowskie called after him. 

Hammers strolled back to his soldiers. He wheeled around and gazed at Strajowskie’s back as the president hobbled back to his own front line. “No, we don’t,” he muttered. 

He felt bad that the old man had to die due to their differences. 

Almost. 

He took one step forward. 

His brethren filtered by, shrieking in unbridled fury and bloodlust. 

***

From high on their hilltop perch, archers rained down shafts into the approaching mass of Undead. Few arrows hit their marks, and the ones that did hardly whittled down the wave of scrambling, fanged figures. 

The twangs of bows died out, lost in the maddening shrieks that followed. Undead leapt high. The soldiers behind Strajowskie squatted and gripped giant wooden pikes nestled at their feet. The front line and Strajowskie stepped back and the second line stepped forward simultaneously. Pike tips were hefted high into the air, blunt ends braced against dirt and broken asphalt.  

Strajowskie beamed as vampires impaled themselves several feet above his head. Ashen clouds erupted. Even with their vision obscured, more Undead charged forth to join their brethren at the ends of the ragged pikes that had been fashioned from gnarled fallen branches found in the ravine. None turned to vapor before being impaled.  

With a sudden surge in confidence, Strajowskie wondered anew if today might be the day he and Hammers battled after all. 

The pikes fell from the darkened, starlit sky. Machetes sliced. Crossbows sang. Soldiers were trampled, and the vampires created holes in their foremost ranks, mowing them down with vicious strikes that stained the grass with human blood. 

Strajowskie grimaced. He’d expected the Undead to be more cautious, their ignorance of the sudden relocation of the Human encampment being their ultimate downfall. Instead, they were capitalizing on the new grounds.  

He dropped his Kevlar shield and pulled the machete from his sheath. A dozen Undead attacked, claws and fangs glinting in starlight. He chopped two heads off, then twirled about, performing a whirligig motion with his machete. Two more heads rolled onto the ground before bursting into ash. He parried, stabbed, and sliced until the remainder of the dozen fell. 

An old bank collapsed at the intersection where they clashed. Catty-corner from there, a ransacked pizza delivery store was reduced to splintering wood and shards of glass. Strajowskie didn’t have time to mourn the loss of human history. He missed a large, sinewy fist to the face, dodging in time to spot three hulking Undead beasts gather before him.  

Stupid brutes
. 

A hand brushed against his back. He spun around, bringing the machete up to cleave the attacker in twain. 

Colonel Drake stood behind him, surrounded by a dozen armored soldiers. They wore plate upon plate of pillaged Kevlar.  

“Sir, I wish to try something new. Even out the odds!” he shouted. Then his eyes widened and he pointed over Strajowskie’s shoulder. 

Strajowskie spun around and parried a wicked set of claws aimed at his abdomen. While his newest giant attacker was off-balance, the soldiers behind him charged, pushing him aside.  

In perfect unison, the armored soldiers brought reinforced shields to bear, squatting. The shields fit together like a three-dimensional puzzle, enveloping the soldiers, a metallic egg setting in an asphalt nest. The three beasts pummeled the strange creation. The metallic egg sat firm, unmoving. 

The beasts stopped their attack. The metallic egg suddenly hatched, giving birth to a dozen humans. They roared, charged, attacked the giants’ legs. The beasts renewed their attack, but the soldiers rebuilt their egg-shaped barrier before any harm could be done. Fists hammered. Dull pings echoed. Muffled laughter sounded from inside the mass of Kevlar. 

Again, the shields slid apart. Again, the soldiers took shelter before any retaliation occurred. Strajowskie guffawed, sheathed his machete, and grabbed his mini-Ashmore. While the beasts were preoccupied, he sped around the contraption. He aimed and fired twice. Shafts burrowed into the fleshy throats of two of the beasts. Gurgled howls of rage escaped their lips.  

He pulled out his machete and slashed at their calves, rending skin and muscle from the bone. The metallic egg beside him broke apart. Drake and the others gathered around him, hacking away. Fists slammed into their shields. Instead of retreating to their ingenious sanctuary, the soldiers remained at his side. Their machetes rang in the night in melodic harmony. 

One of the beasts faltered, bumping into another. Together they toppled to the ground. Strajowskie bounded, landing with his feet on their chests. He took no aim, firing arrows into each beast without pause. 

Seconds later, he fell several inches to the ground, ash billowing around his ankles. 

Then he was airborne as something slammed into his left temple. His mini-Ashmore clanked against the asphalt. He heard shouts and the 
twang
 of the Kevlar shields sliding together. He landed hard on dirt and grass, skidding beneath battling vampires and humans. Several of each toppled before he came to a rest on his right side. 

Amidst random legs and feet that appeared in his view, Strajowskie could see that the front line had been pushed back several yards already. The metallic egg stood alone in a sea of vampires, sitting docile as it was pounded on by the remaining beast. 

He scrambled back to his feet, head ringing. A vampire appeared before him. Another to his left, another to his right. One or two behind him. Surrounded. 

He swiveled his head to and fro, feet dancing in a circle, watching every quarter. Claws grazed his skin. Nicks and cuts appeared on his forearms. Blood trickled, cooled by the late-night breeze. After a few rotations, the slicing claws no longer stung. Numb, he whirled, attempting to ward off the blows. 

Moonlight illuminated the scene. His arms were bright red. Undead eyes all around flared and sputtered. 

Fucking sharks.
 

He finally stopped turning, leaned his left shoulder forward, and charged. He slammed into an Undead and cleared enough room to reach for his machete. Half a dozen Undead lunged. He pulled out the blade, ducked, and whipped it above his head.  

Legs twitched, feet still planted against the broken asphalt and patches of grass, as six torsos severed at the waist fell before him. Their arms reached, fingers digging into the ground, mouths snapping like turtles.  

Strajowskie stood and parried a quick-striking vampire that had jumped over the lot of the half-vampires. He deflected an overhand claw-slap and followed through to the ground, severing a crawling half-vampire at the head. Before it could burst into ash, its body pieces were mashed into the ground by more Undead. He brought the machete up again to block what would’ve been a devastating blow to his jugular. 

Something grabbed his feet and pinned his legs together. He went down. The breath rushed out of his lungs as he landed on his stomach, arms out at his side. Somehow, he kept hold of his machete. He looked up and rolled to his left, avoiding having his nose bitten off by one of the half-vampires. He did an overhand chop with the machete and sliced the snapping head off. Ashes swirled around his face. He rolled onto his back and looked down at his pinned-together feet. A half-vampire clawed its way up his legs. 

He reached forward and wrenched the clawing half-vampire’s hair, then slid the machete across its exposed windpipe. The half-vampire’s grip lessened. Strajowskie flexed his calves and broke its hold. He brought his right knee to his chest and kicked out, hitting the half-vampire square in the forehead. Its head flew off, weakened by the machete slice.