The Human-Undead War Trilogy (Book 1): Dark Intentions (33 page)

The beast stared right back, cutting a swath through its own brothers. 

It was coming for him. 

Chapter 40

Drake ducked a mighty six-fingered open-hand blow. The Kevlar-clad soldier behind him was swatted and flew through the air, crashing into the sheer limestone bluff wall with a sickening crunch. Drake stood to full height and parried several strikes with his machete. Then his missing eyeball caused a blind spot.  

Excruciating pain shot through his face and Drake was airborne, lifted several feet off the ground by the unseen blow. He landed on his back and scrambled back to his feet. A large shadow fell over him. He slashed his machete, stepping back with each fending strike.  

The extremely giant beast licked scaly lips with its three-pronged tongue and offered what could only be considered a grin. Then it balled up a fist and slung it at Drake’s left temple. He slipped in his haste to parry. The slip caused a deflection. Pain shot through the uninjured side of his face, but he still stood firm. He roared, hoping to draw the attention of his Kevlar soldiers.  

But his soldiers had formed a half-shell with their shields to fend off a dozen of the regular-sized giant beasts. His heart sank. There would be no immediate help from his personal guard.  

He hacked away at the beast’s upper thighs as it wound up its fist for another blow. This time, he was ready. It swung. He ducked and side-stepped the beast, shoving his machete with both hands hilt-deep beneath its ribs. The beast attempted to wrench the machete out of its torso. Drake darted past it, searching for a weapon. He slid a few times, putting his hand out to catch himself. Sweat dribbled into his facial wounds, but he was so numb that nothing stung anymore.  

There, beside several of the dead Kevlar soldiers: One of his rigged pikes. Drake dove headfirst, sliding on his belly. His fingers wrapped around the pole. He pushed himself back to his feet and whirled around to face his adversary, keeping the right side of his face toward the ravine.  

Its legs elongated, shooting it up high, until it was almost as tall as the bluff behind it. Arrows showered down from the sky, breathtaking brown bullets streaking in front of the sun. Dozens of arrowheads burrowed into the giant beast’s exposed backside. It screeched that horrible pterodactyl-like sound again. All in the vicinity—Human and Undead alike—stopped to cover their ears. 

Using the distraction, Drake whirled around, stomped over to his Kevlar soldiers, and skewered two of the hairy beasts surrounding them before anyone noticed his presence. He jerked the haft of the pike back down and out of their bodies when they didn’t explode into ash. The Kevlar soldiers shook themselves from their siren-like induced trance and took his example in stride, jutting pikes out from behind their half-formed shield barrier. 

The dozen beasts that had held his Kevlar Seven at bay lay dead at their feet before the shrill screeching ended. 

Drake scooped up a fallen machete from the ground. His men wiped their brows, breathing raggedly. Then Drake and his Seven wheeled about as one cohesive unit and charged the super beast. It had shrunk to its normal size, writhing about in agony, attempting to dislodge the multitude of arrows that jutted out of its back like porcupine quills. Drake led his men to the feet of the beast and hacked away with his new machete. 

Ignoring the fervent strikes, the beast bowled over three of the Seven with one backhanded blow. Drake skirted the trajectory of the swing and sliced down with his machete. The beast recoiled. Its severed arm plopped onto broken asphalt. Drake kicked the fleshy arm. It skirted across Rucker Road, disappearing among the piles of dead bodies. 

The three Kevlar soldiers were back on their feet, shields poised, blood-soaked pikes hefted. They broke apart, circling the injured beast. 

The beast struck out with its remaining arm. Two of the Kevlar soldiers splattered against the ground, bleeding from severe slashes across their throats. Two more fell to their knees, clutching exposed intestines. Their cries of agony drowned out the triumphant bellow of the beast. 

Drake and the remaining Three backed up, shoulder-to-shoulder. Their shields and pikes were slick with blood and sweat and unrecognizable meaty substances, their breathing too labored to speak.  

The creature resumed its attempt to dislodge the arrows embedded in its back, apparently satisfied that it had subdued its enemies. 

One of the soldiers beside him pointed back toward the ravine. Drake glanced. An uprooted tree lay in the ditch next to Rucker Road. The tip of it was thick, bark-covered, and pointy. The soldier made jabbing motions with his hands. Drake understood the soldier’s intent and nodded.  

The Three and Drake attached their weapons to their armor as best they could. They jogged through the midst of battling friends and foes to the uprooted tree, which was about six feet long and not thick enough to be unmanageable. With two on each side, they squatted and interlinked hands and fingers beneath the tree. They hefted it up to cradle it in their arms. Then they power-lifted it and extended their arms until they were planted firm beneath the horizontal tree. They waded through corpses toward the preoccupied beast. 

Even with the ground slippery from death, they built enough momentum to speed up to a steady trot. The beast looked up just as the tip plowed into its abdomen. Their momentum stalled. The bulk of the beast was too much for them. 

The Three screamed with rage, bolstered by adrenaline. Drake joined in. They dug their feet into the ground, pushing forward. The beast budged, screeching in dismay. It stepped back, then again, and again. Drake roared. His thighs bulged, knees wobbling from the strain. Together, the four men propelled the skewered beast across Rucker Road. They didn’t stop even when knee-high weeds swallowed their feet. 

The beast’s back connected with limestone and the four men were jolted again. The wooden tip sank deeper into the beast’s abdomen. Drake let go of the tree. Being the most unencumbered of the four, he stepped out from beneath their weapon, scrambled to the back of the trunk, and hoisted himself onto it. The Three struggled beneath the additional weight, but Drake was light on his feet. He sped on tiptoes to the beast. It swatted at him, rage wrinkling its large shelf-like brow. He ducked, produced his machete, and sliced its other arm off before it could come around with a backswing.  

He dropped the machete to the ground and reached around to his back to pull his pike from its bo-like sheath. The creature’s eyes spit with red electricity as it glared at him.  

He aimed and slid the rigged arm. The tip rammed into the center of the beast’s chest. Electricity spat again, then died out. The beast’s eyelids drooped. Drake jumped off the tree as the creature slumped. The Kevlar Three stepped out from under their weapon, sweating and shaking from exhaustion. The trunk fell to the earth.  

They lined up with backs against the limestone bluff. It offered shade from the western sinking sun. In silence, the men rested, battle raging around them. No Undead approached them. Drake wasn’t certain if everyone was too wrapped up in their own battles or if they avoided them because of the super beast that was pinned to the limestone next to him. But he was relieved for the few minutes of peace.  

The weapon used against the super beast had spurred an idea. 

He allowed his Kevlar men to regain control of their lungs and then said, “Issue the fallback to the bluffs.” 

Without waiting for a response, he turned to his right and walked toward Eighth Street. He kept his hand against the limestone, using it as a guide, his good eye trained on the battlefield. He quickened his pace, straining every muscle. 

He needed to get to the cannon before the pass was lost. 

***

Colonel Drake limped into the pass. Strajowskie rushed to greet him and grimaced. Drake’s face was a mess. Deep vertical cuts ran from brow to chin on the left side, oozing clear liquid as if infected. His left eye was open but a sliver. The eyelids of his right eye were swollen and hid the empty eye socket well. His right cheekbone was visible through a nasty gash, and his nose was crooked, probably broken. Blood everywhere, like hamburger meat. 

Sweat dripped into every cut, but Drake managed a smile. “Mr. President,” he said, saluting. 

Strajowskie returned the salute and waved over several lollygagging medics. He peered behind the colonel. “Your men?” 

“Only three left. Rucker Road and the ravine are lost, sir.” A young medic set a stool behind the colonel, who plopped onto it.  

“A bit sooner than I expected, but all the same.” Strajowskie gestured with his chin. “We should be able to hold this northern end of Rucker and these few blocks for another hour before we fall back to the pass.” 

“Exactly what I was hoping to hear, sir. I would like to request permission to—” 

“You will allow these medics to attend to you in the safety of the camp. You will rest and rejoin with medical clearance only. Is that understood?” 

“But, sir, what about… Who will…?” Drake stammered.  

“There are others who are more than competent to lead in your temporary absence from the field.” 

“Several more hours, it’ll be sunset,” Drake said. “They’ll send in fresh waves and pull out the beasts and mist vampires, sir. There’s no way in hell I’m going to retreat to the medical camp and miss out.” 

“I’ll have none of that, colonel,” Strajowskie stated. What was it about his men of rank? Stubborn, every last one of them. He supposed they learned from him, but it was annoying. “Cannopolis is still wheelchair-bound, Manera’s missing an arm, and now I’ve got a colonel whose face looks like a Rottweiler’s chew-toy. I’ll be damned if I let a commanding officer die on my watch all because I was too stubborn to make him follow orders.” 

The young medic dabbed at Drake’s wounds. Drake winced. “I’ll be fine, Mr. President. Really. Don’t send me to rot away in the encampment while the rest of you get to have all the fun.” He must have noticed Strajowskie’s reddening face and added, “I don’t want to be on the battlefield commanding in this condition. I have something else in mind.” 

“And what might be so important that you’d place yourself at risk and disobey a direct order?”  

Drake curled his lip. “I want to make the cannon go 
boom
.” 

***

John bolted upright. Frenzied, he flailed his arms and tossed blankets to the floor. Then he scooted to the head of his bed, where two adjacent stone walls formed a corner. How long had he slept? Two hours? That would put the time at one o’clock in the morning, one hour before the scheduled procedure. 

John cradled his knees and huddled against the cold walls. Brian had explained what the platelet mushroom was, how it was accidentally created, its proposed purpose—John would be converted from a normal human to a virtual engine.  

If the intended purpose of the creation was carried out, vampires could leave humans alone and survive off the mushrooms. Harmony would ensue. John would be a hero to mankind.  

He snorted. He didn’t believe in Brian’s whimsical fancy. But he couldn’t deny that volunteering to be the first host for the platelet mushroom would bring subtle revenge to his captor. And he could slip into the afterlife without having to provoke murder or commit suicide.  

Brian’s enthusiasm had also convinced John, ultimately, to allow the procedure. Young and ambitious. John respected such qualities. Brian wasn’t misled and consumed by darkness, as was Barnaby. Brian, however, might be chasing a delusional dream. John wasn’t certain what drove Brian’s desire to accomplish such an improbable goal, but he sensed that the scientist had noble intentions. 

If Brian could trump Barnaby and bring a swift end to the tyrant’s reign, John felt that much more hope for the future of mankind. 

He hugged his knees closer as guilt settled beside him. The scientists were the only “friends” he’d had in nearly a decade, and he’d betrayed their trust before they even knew of his existence. 

He jumped from his bed, padded across the room, and threw open the door. For the first time in years, he didn’t pause on the bridge above the moat. His cloak didn’t cover his body or brow, and the dampness of the lower chambers cooled his clammy skin. He closed his eyes often and breathed through his nose, savoring the final hour of his life. Though it was choked with death and decay and dust, the air smelled like an ocean-front breeze. Like the windy days in the hay fields on his farm.  

He felt surprisingly alive for a man who had a predetermined time of death. 

He thought about veering off to the bedchamber to see Ruby, but he bypassed the scientists’ room. He didn’t want to see Ruby at that moment. She reminded him of Catherine. Too much. With inner demons nipping at his heels every step of the way, the last thing he wanted to do was to confront those memories again. 

He made his way to the circular tower and stumbled into the laboratory upon arrival. As he’d suspected, Brian was inside. The scientist paced back and forth, notebooks and papers strewn all over the marble island countertop.  

Brian glanced at a small digital clock on the countertop. “We still have fifty minutes. Ruby wanted to attend. I wasn’t planning on starting without her, but if you’ve taken care of everything then I could go get her.” 

“Er, no actually. I came by to ask a few questions. And to confess.”  

Brian raised his eyebrows. “Confess?” He chuckled. “I’m certain you’ve done nothing in your lifetime that would garner a confession to me.”