The Human-Undead War Trilogy (Book 1): Dark Intentions (2 page)

“Please, they killed—I saw—Run!” John shouted. He gestured at the cavern opening less than five feet away and shook, unable to point straight.

One of the creatures sped from the entrance and onto the beach. Sightless eyes darted back and forth. Nostrils flared. A dry, cracked tongue darted out as it raised its head skyward.

The tourists and locals scrambled, screaming.

The creature screeched in agony as the rays of the sun beat upon it. It burst into flames, the skin melting on its anguished face before it erupted in a cloud of ash only feet away from where John lay in a heap of crushed spirit. 

The stench was overwhelming. Many of the onlookers vomited. 

John neither screamed nor vomited.

Chapter 2

Local authorities, reporters, paramedics, and firefighters were on the scene within minutes. FBI and CIA agents followed, along with a host of other government officials. Marines were soon dispatched to destroy the remainder of the creatures within the cave. A call to military forces echoed throughout the world, and the search for vampire havens started.

After his wounds were treated, a relentless stream of agents questioned John and paid for a motel room to keep him nearby during the investigation. They quickly determined it was not murder. Not only was there no evidence, but the creature John killed wasn’t human, or a known animal, which disallowed any charges. The reception was opposite of what he’d expected: They’d named the cavern Ashmore Cave and were touting him as a hero. He didn’t much appreciate the spotlight and sulked in his room in as much solitude as the intruding media-folk and investigators would allow. 

He tried calling Catherine every chance he could, but she wouldn’t answer and their landline phone didn’t have an answering machine. John was relieved when the FBI gave him a plane ticket home five days after the incident. He would be able to return the exact day he’d planned to when he’d set off on his impromptu vacation. Catherine would be expecting him.

He boarded the plane alone, gripping his carry-on tight—Matthew’s bag of writing material, the one item he’d been able to salvage from the crime scene. It was worth keeping. Bill had shoved several gems and goblets into the pouches before the attack, and nobody had bothered to search it. Airport security had pushed him through the metal detectors without blinking as the alarms rang. 

The flight was a blur of puffy clouds and light blue nothingness. He dozed. Horrid images of his dead friends invaded his dreams. He awoke as the plane touched down, quickly exited, grabbed his bags, and hailed a taxi to take him to their new house, the one the media wouldn’t know about. They’d signed for the new place in the city before his trip, but the farmhouse was his official documented address and he’d wanted to keep it that way.

John stepped out of the taxi, glad to be away from the circus of cameras and reporters that had plagued him. He walked past the white picket fence, through the dew-laced grass. He was happy to be home even though his body was bruised, battered and bandaged. The sunrise was a brilliant mixture of pink, purple and white cotton balls. The silence of the dawning morning was a welcome break from the calamity of the last few days.

He paused outside the front door. They didn’t have cable, and Catherine was more reclusive than he was, so she would know nothing of his adventure. How would she react? She’d be excited to learn an unknown cavern had been named after him. She would be thrilled to hear that he’d discovered wealth beyond their dreams. She would be ecstatic to hear that he’d decided to forgive her: imminent death had swayed his mind.

She would, however, be terrified to hear of the horrors that had unfolded in that dark cave. 

And the rest of his family? They’d flown in before he’d left on his trip, and they were as secluded as Catherine. They shunned social media and electronic devices, as he’d raised them to do. They probably wouldn’t know anything either.

He pushed the door open, hands shaking. The inside of the house was cluttered yet clean. Birthday banners hung everywhere, with balloons and flowers arranged on the marble tabletop in the kitchen. The oak table in the adjacent dining room was set with plates and glasses and silverware, a bottle of wine in a bucket, and unlit candles. The hallway was void of shoes and toys and clutter, as he was accustomed to. Everything looked as it had the day he’d left, except for the party materials and wine bottle.

But it was deathly quiet. No voices, no footsteps, no radio.

Catherine would’ve slaved over a meal for hours, he was certain, but no smells of baked ham or pies or stew invaded his nose.

Just two unmistakable scents wafted toward him: sulfur and dead creatures.

He shook his head and closed his eyes. Would he ever feel safe and secure like he used to? Would he always be paranoid, defensive? 

Would he ever know joy again?

Stop hallucinating! He reopened his eyes, expecting to see his family before him, expecting to smell the food and hear his grandchildren’s laughter.

But it was still empty and void of life, sound, and all but two distinct smells.

John inched down the hallway. He withdrew his lucky pencil from his shirt pocket and held it forth. He was edgy. Ridiculous. Catherine and Sarah and Tina and William and John, Jr. would all be in the living room waiting to scare him near to death (if that were possible anymore). They were keeping as silent as mice, ready to welcome him home and hug him and ask of his adventures. The smell was probably from a match that had lit a candle. Or just his frenetic imagination.

The living room was shrouded in an impenetrable darkness. The shades were closed, curtains drawn, no lights. He paused at the end of the hallway. His eyesight adjusted.

“Welcome home, John,” said a calm, emotionless voice. It was deep and unrecognizable yet unmistakably menacing. Fingers snapped and the corner of the room lightened up. But the light wasn’t cast by a bulb or candle or flashlight.

A tiny ball of flame danced above the tips of a wrinkled thumb and a thin, bony pointer finger.

“How—" John began, holding the pencil out.

“There are many things in this world that humans do not know. Nor could they understand.” It was a man—a vampire, John decided—sitting on John’s favorite plush leather chair. 

He looked like a stereotypical vampire: short black hair that formed a widow’s peak on the forehead, pale skin, bushy eyebrows, penetrating black eyes, pointy nose. His scarlet lips peeled back in a smirk, revealing two sharp fangs amongst rows of tinier sharp teeth. 

“Do not wonder how I got here or how I know who you are, or even how I am able to produce this flame. That is unimportant. The reason I am here is important.” He stood, towering above John, at least six-and-a-half feet tall. “And do not look into the fire, John. Look past it.”

John hadn’t realized how transfixed he was by the strange ball floating above the intruder’s black, jagged fingernails. He strained his eyes. His jaw dropped. The tears he’d been fighting flowed. His body went numb and his knees gave out. He fell to the floor, his sacred weapon rolling over to the other man’s feet. On all fours, world whirling in a haze, he vomited on his own hands.

There, past the light, was a heap of bloody bodies: His son and daughter-in-law, John, Jr. and Sarah; his grandchildren, William and Tina; and Catherine. They were stacked upon each other, dressed in their best clothing (stained crimson), eyes glazed and sightless, mouths curled into horrible silent screams.

Oh, Catherine! All thoughts of her cheating ways were immediately erased. He reached for her lifeless body, tears streaming, memories haunting every movement.

The intruder appeared beside him, the eerie flame gone. He grabbed the back of John’s neck and lifted him off the floor. “You killed my family,” he said, holding up the pencil, “so I have paid you back in full. But you still owe me so much more.”

“I have nothing now!” John shouted, voice shaking with anger and sorrow. “You son of—”

Before he could finish, he was thrown to the opposite wall. He thought he heard bones break on impact but he was too numb to care.

The intruder stalked toward him, turning a ring on the middle finger of his right hand. “We have hidden for centuries amongst our so-called brethren. But for several exceptions who saw to toying with mankind, we would have remained unknown. Now, your government seeks out our havens and destroys us without remorse. All because of you.

“You have brought upon us a war, Ashmore,” he said, voice quieter, less dramatic. “Only one of our species will survive, and it will not be you pathetic fucking humans.”

“We’ll kill you, you murderous bast—” 

The vampire was upon him in a millisecond, gripping him by the throat, choking off his air. “You will not kill me, Ashmore. No one will. And though I should kill you, there is too much at stake in the future.” He drew in close, breath smelling like a dog’s. “You will serve me, and only natural death shall claim you.” He let go.

John slumped against the wall, gasping. Should he fight? Mourn? Curse? The vampire looked upon him with utter disgust as the battle waged within his mind. 

He couldn’t join the horrible man, could he? No—He owed his family more than that. He owed his friends more than that.

He owed himself more than that. 

He shook his head. “No.”

“That was not an option.” The vampire grasped John’s legs and regarded him with a cold glare. “You will learn to serve me, Ashmore, if you wish to survive.” Then he dragged John through the living room and down the hallway. 

John struggled for several feet, but as he passed by his dead family members and stared into their hollow eyes, his determination failed. His head bounced along the floor, and he flitted in and out of hysteria. It was all happening so fast, too many events in too few days. He just wanted to hold his wife one last time, play with his grandchildren and gather the guys for poker night and go on a vacation getaway and—

He just wanted to be at peace.

The vampire hoisted him onto his shoulder.

“Where…we going?” John managed to mumble.

“From here, Ashmore, we travel abroad.” The vampire craned his neck and smirked. “London falls.”

John’s mind ran amuck. London? What did London have to do with anything? And had John truly killed a member of the vampire’s family? The gaunt tribal leader from the cavern and this murderous intruder did look much alike. But why destroy John’s life when he’d only sought survival?

The vampire trudged through the front door and into the sunlight, the short human bouncing upon his shoulder. 

“How—but you can’t—that’s—!” John stuttered, blinded by the morning light.

“As I said earlier, there are many things you humans could never comprehend,” the vampire replied, neither blinking nor squinting. “And from now on you shall address me as Master, you pathetic maggot.”

John felt a strange sensation, as if he was floating, and then unconsciousness overtook him.  

Chapter 3

August 15, 2048 AD

General Hammers pounded his fist on the table. “You can’t place the sole blame on us, Cannopolis.” Hammers was a stout, muscular, forbidding opponent. His pale brown skin was cracked and scaly, like a lizard’s. Red eyes peered at the humans and Undead gathered around the table. A circular patch was affixed to his shirt. It was the Undead Army insignia: Two yellow cat-like eyes suspended above two ivory fangs, surrounded by a field of red.  

Brian Koltz stood, arms wide. Many of the other humans also stood—Keith Manera, his life-long friend and fellow scientist; Ruby Paige, his quiet and stricken-looking intern; General Cannopolis, the leader of the human army; President Strajowskie, the man who’d attempted to hold the United States together once the war had begun; many other delegates from the few remaining organized countries left in the civilized world. Their hands were in their pockets, ready to draw their Ashmore crossbows at the first sign of a scuffle between the opposing presences within the confined room. 

The vampire delegates stood too, hissing, eyes aglow. Brian didn’t know their names or why they attended the meetings. Hammers didn’t need back-up.  

He interjected, “Please, General Hammers. Accusations—” 

“Mr. Koltz,” Hammers interrupted, “with all due respect, I wasn’t the one who tried to place this war on the other’s head. Remember the atrocities your own kind committed after the SADAH Mission? Humans kill humans too. Don’t use my brethren and me as scapegoats for their deaths. We didn’t start this shit.” 

Brian remembered well the SADAH Mission—the Search And Destroy All Havens Mission. He’d been only twenty-five years of age and near completion of his master’s in biology at Harvard then, seven years earlier, when the legendary John Ashmore had discovered—with irrefutable proof—the existence of vampires. 

All hell had broken loose from there. Mass hysteria spread like the flu of 2037. Riots ensued. People torched inhabited homes, killed others in fear, stole goods, quit their jobs, and altogether ignored sanity and organization. The legend himself disappeared after the brutal murder of his family members, which had spoken volumes of the horror that had been unleashed upon the world. 

And there appeared to be no solution to turn back the tidal wave that had made the world a hollow shell of its former self.

None that anyone would endorse, anyway.

“You’re correct, General Hammers,” Brian said. “But we aren’t here to place fault. We’re here for the betterment of both sides.”

He turned and Ruby’s round, doughy blue eyes stared at him. Before the meeting, she had stopped him in the hallway and asked him to dinner afterward. Though flattered, he had declined. He didn’t mix his job with his personal life. 

Not that I have a personal life.

Everyone sat back down. 

Hammers clasped his hands before him, nostrils flaring. “I think that’s bullshit, Mr. Koltz. We gather once a month and accomplish nothing.”

“Both species can coexist in harmony. We need to discuss alternatives, solutions.” 

“Until humans can accept us and help us find a way to survive without feeding off them, this war will never end,” Hammers said.

“But there is a way!” General Cannopolis’ deep, booming voice silenced the councilmen. Though he was only thirty-two years old, it was no surprise that he’d been chosen to command the Human Army. He was almost as large as Hammers and even more charismatic. He turned to President Strajowskie. “Mr. President, you need to sanction the platelet.”

“No.”

“But—” 

“We’ve already sacrificed enough, General Cannopolis,” Strajowskie said. More grey hairs had sprouted up in the last couple of months, his eyes more sunken. He looked like he was sixty years old but he’d just turned fifty. 

The nameless human delegates whispered. Brian was certain he heard “vampire lover” among the mumbling. He studied all the empty chairs. Strajowskie was right. Canada. Brazil. Puerto Rico. Ireland. Scotland. Iceland. Many more. Too many vacant seats. Too many sacrifices. 

“This is what our sacrifices have gotten us.” Strajowskie rustled several papers splayed on the table before him. “The entirety of South America now belongs to the Undead. Australia as well.”

“Not true, Mr. President,” Ruby interrupted. “There are reports from a band called the Vampirons in Australia who claim to be tens-of-thousands strong.” 

“I don’t know what fairy tale world you live in, but I live in the real world, Miss Paige. The Vampirons don’t exist. No one is dumb enough to think disguising themselves as vampires will exclude them from war.” He glared at Ruby, then shifted back to Cannopolis. “England is scattered. Japan hangs on only within the confines of Tokyo. Several million humans exist today when scant years ago billions flourished. We can’t ignore the facts, and we can’t place our trust in a product that may or may not work.”

“Mr. President, I guarantee the success of the platelet mushroom. I just need your approval and a volunteer,” Brian said.

Strajowskie harrumphed. “Brian, I appointed you head of the Undead Relations Committee because of your experience and knowledge of the Undead. I didn’t appoint you to help destroy the human race.”

Brian averted his gaze, the quiet jape burning deep into his core. He just had to bring that up, didn’t he?

“Barnaby has expressed interest in your creation, Mr. Koltz,” General Hammers said. At the sight of Brian’s obvious surprise, he chuckled. “He wants peace as much as anyone, but he also wants the Undead to survive. He is intrigued by this platelet thing.”

“Then why doesn’t he come to these meetings and ask Brian about it himself?” Strajowskie interjected. He locked gazes with Hammers. “Is it because he’s a fuckin’ coward?”

A murmur coalesced. 

Hammers stood, eyes narrowed. “He’d rip your heart out where you sit, you pathetic old bastard.”

Everyone sprang to their feet. Fangs were bared and hands gripped weapons. 

Brian had to stop the meeting. He shouted, “Enough!” and snatched up the remote control in front of him. It controlled the sunroof in the meeting room within the URC main compound. It was late evening in the middle of August in Phoenix, Arizona. The sun was not set. 

Everyone froze. 

“That’s it. This meeting is adjourned. Come back next month with results. And think about this: If we can’t agree on anything, eventually there won’t be anything left to argue.”

Forgoing farewells, everyone filtered out through their respective doors: the Undead at the far end, to board a plane within the URC hangar so there was no contact with sunlight, and the humans through double doors behind the boardroom table. Brian stood firm in one spot until everyone was gone, ignoring the evil glares of the vampires and the doubly evil scowls from the human delegates. Then he picked up his folders, turned the lights off, and walked out, slouching.

Ruby waited in the hallway, notes tucked under her arms and pressed to her voluptuous chest. Her blonde hair was bouncier than usual. She offered a warm smile, accentuating her dimples. 

Brian melted. Her lips alone hypnotized him. Why the hell didn’t I take her up on the dinner offer?

Keith leaned against the wall across from her. His shaved head shone and dark bags sagged beneath his amber eyes. His upper lip quivered, making his thick black mustache look like a squirming caterpillar. 

Ruby cocked her head to one side, squinting. “Would you have pushed that button?”

Brian shook his head. “Never will. I’m not here to eradicate them. I just want peace.” He met Keith’s gaze. “Vampirism is an infestation, a disease, not something to turn a blind eye to and destroy. It can be cured.”

Keith shook his head. “I don’t know why you still hold on to that idea.”

“Because nobody realizes the potential their DNA may possess. Nobody wants to learn if their genes could have a positive impact on the human race. Everyone just wants to kill them out of fear,” Brian said. Although his primary work involved killing or torturing the bloodsuckers, such tasks were done out of obligation to his job. He didn’t enjoy doing it but had to experiment to find the cure and end the prejudice. He’d be doing the world a favor.

“I can’t believe that asshole had the nerve to emphasize experience.” Keith stared at the ceiling. “Who does he think he is?”

“He’s the president. Whether we like it or not, he calls the shots.” Brian pushed his curly brown locks away from his forehead. “If he adamantly refuses the only peaceful solution to this war, that’s on him. And if he wants to dredge up my past to make his point, no matter how much it pisses me off, then so be it. One day he’ll have no choice but to approve the experiment and get the platelet out into the world. Or I’ll have to be appointed to lead the vampires,” he said with a wink. 

Keith snorted. “Cold day in Hell.”

They walked side-by-side down the hallway to the left. The first floor was filled with offices, all with identical closed doors. Most employees had already left the headquarters for the evening. They encountered a jittery, wild-black-haired man wearing a gray URC lab coat whom none of them knew. The apparent intern didn’t acknowledge them as he bustled toward the elevators at the end of the hall.

Brian looked at Ruby, then back at Keith. The tension was obvious. “I’d love to kick the crap out of some holographic vampires in the training room. Who’s with me?”

“I’d be glad to show you a thing or two about fighting.” Ruby chuckled seductively, and even Keith raised an inquisitive eyebrow.

“Keith?”

Keith shook his head. “I’m going to annoy Strajowskie. Someone needs to talk some sense into him. That was the most hostile meeting since the first one last December. This doesn’t sit right with me.”

Brian agreed. Negotiations had taken a turn for the worse and the president refused to cooperate. Why wouldn’t Strajowskie give him the opportunity to prove his solution would work? Humanity was in danger of becoming extinct. Couldn’t Strajowskie see that? 

Keith hopped onto an elevator to go to his office on the ground floor while Ruby coerced Brian into trekking up the stairs to the fifth floor. 

I need to work out more often, Brian thought as they ascended the flight of stairs. He was already breathing raggedly by the second floor while Ruby trounced along breathless. He envied her fitness. Then again, he’d seen her sleek body in a bikini at last year’s company pool party. She was slender and toned, and it was difficult for him to concentrate on anything but her shapely legs as she marched ahead of him.

“You’re wearing that skirt into the training room?”

She glanced over her shoulder, batting her eyelashes. “Of course. Why? Will it distract you?”

Between huffs, Brian chuckled. Ruby had a perfect body, a perfect height, intelligence, great manners, and she could be flirtatious when appropriate. His mother would’ve loved to meet her.

Brooding memories flooded his mind. He’d never met his father, but his mother had been there for everything. She’d supported him countless times, especially after her death. The amount of money he’d inherited had amounted to a small fortune. He’d been able to focus on his career rather than dawdle away at some dead-end job. She had saved him, as he had saved her when she died.

When he had killed her.

Strajowskie had intentionally illuminated that life-altering and bitter moment. Why? To deter Brian from pushing his agenda onto the attendees? Or just to belittle him for the sake of it?

They arrived at the fifth floor and Ruby asked, “Who’s up?”

Brian opened the door and waved her on. “Ladies first.” 

They entered a long white room with nothing but two security doors and a sign that read “ARMORY-URC” located on the opposite side. Ruby handed him her notes and strolled up to the door on the left. She slipped a card out from inside her blouse and swiped it through the identification reader. A light on the handle turned from red to green and she stepped inside the armory.

Brian stood where he was, surrounded by white as water surrounds an island. How ironic that the Undead Committee would choose white décor where such black deeds are carried out, he thought. The government placed no restrictions on URC’s treatment of Undead prisoners-of-war, often offering them for extreme experiments and training purposes. Brian preferred the hologram program that had been instituted several years ago. He was certain Ruby wouldn’t mind the lack of a live training target.

She returned minutes later wearing a leather neck-brace and a Kevlar vest, and carrying a full-sized Ashmore. A metallic calligraphy-style ‘A’ glinted on the tiller, the trademark of Ashmore, Incorporated. It was the original fiberglass-and-carbon-limbed crossbow issued in 2042. Straps on each side that resembled clips for firearms held thirty-five rounds of ammo. It was designed with its namesake in mind: The ammunition itself was pencil-shaped and wooden, fashioned from compressed cedar, a dedication to John Ashmore’s improvised choice of weapon when he’d made the first official Undead kill. 

She hefted the crossbow over her shoulder and grunted. “A bit heavier than I remember, but it’ll do. Those damn minis are so cheap.”

They walked to the door on the right and stepped in. The observation room was ten-foot-by-ten-foot, with a door on each wall perpendicular to the one they entered. Four plush chocolate-leather chairs rested in each corner of the square, windowed room. The door on the left led to the training room; to the right, the control room.