The Human-Undead War Trilogy (Book 1): Dark Intentions (4 page)

Chapter 5

“Brian?” 

Keith pushed the observation room door open further, hand in his pocket. Security clearance badges were needed to enter many rooms in the URC. So why was the door ajar? 

The room was organized, except for a stack of folders and notebooks on the desk next to the computer. A few wires hung loose beneath the desktop, a cup of coffee from the facility’s cafeteria next to the computer. He scratched his head.

Brian and Ruby wouldn’t just leave without telling him, would they? Maybe they’d gone to the locker rooms on the first floor to shower up. He relaxed his grip on his crossbow and sat down in the uncomfortable chair.

“Well, I guess I can tell him later, then,” he mumbled to himself. He set about tidying up the place for Greg, knowing him to be rather obsessive about organization. A disk jutted out from the drive so he swiped it up and placed it into its corresponding case. He then restacked the programs, attempting to keep his mind astray. He grabbed the folders and notebooks and searched for a drawer to place them into. A quick glance at the label on a red notebook caused him to pause. 

PLATELET MUSHROOM.

Brian’s notebook. But Brian wouldn’t leave anywhere without it. Keith perused the other folders. One was Ruby’s, the remainder Brian’s.

He jumped up and peered through the giant window into the training room below. No sign of anyone, but the sunroof was wide open. He hit the light switch on the control panel and started.

In the center, two Ashmores lay amongst the debris of smashed, bloodied Styrofoam objects.

He jabbed the emergency button. Nothing happened.

“What the fuck?” 

He snatched the folders from the desk and dashed through the door. Then he sprinted all the way to the elevator to ring the alarms.

***

The groundskeeper walked across the arched stone bridge that crossed the moat. He was stooped over, head bowed and buried in the shadows of a large brown cowl. The robe covered his gaunt body, except for a pair of hirsute, calloused feet that pounded on the stone, kicking dust into the still air.

He glanced at the liquid bubbling in the moat. The urge to vomit was overwhelming. There were stagnant areas where the blood was coagulating, turning brown and blocking flow. A gigantic machine much like the steamboats of past ages churned beneath it, keeping it flowing like a river, and heaters resistant to corrosion kept it fresh. The moat gurgled like a living creature. 

The Master had drained numerous opponents, the unfortunate souls who’d been abandoned alive when the Master’s forces swept across the blood-soaked war fields. The groundskeeper had been forced to watch each prisoner tortured. Vivid images were still crisp in his mind: Large, spiked beds crushing human flesh, and bones splintering beneath enormous iron weights. Tubes were injected into some prisoners, crisscrossing within the catacombs of the castle. Their blood seeped into the moat, filling it to the brim. 

He could still hear agonizing, horrified screams when he slept at night. Occasionally, even when he was awake. But their pleas, their tears—they meant nothing to him anymore. Ghosts of the past. 

Haunting pictures flashed in his mind, those of his family lying bathed in blood on what should’ve been a day of reunion.

I buried those images. They are gone.

Yes, they are! Gone forever!

The groundskeeper stepped down two stairs at the end of the bridge and stopped in his tracks, a deep frown creasing his weathered face. He couldn’t dwell on the past, not when the Master was at the Orphanage, awaiting a report about the progress of the war taking place across the ocean. Stern punishment would come if he didn’t deliver the news speedily.

Pushing the depressing thoughts aside, the groundskeeper continued working his way up to the first floor. With the awful stench of death and decay behind him, he quickened his pace, scraping his feet down the long cob-webbed hallways and up the stairways that connected the hidden underground catacombs to the primary floors of the keep above. Mangy rats scurried into the shadows in his wake.

Perhaps the Master would be generous after hearing the good news and would allow the groundskeeper to roam the countryside beyond the castle walls? The groundskeeper snorted. Of course he wouldn’t allow his slave the luxury of freedom. The Master was a ruthless, vile creature that had forced him into servitude. 

No, he saved you!

He took me away from them!

No! You made him take them away!

Ignoring the internal argument, the groundskeeper sped down the hallway entrance and across the drawbridge, entering the courtyard. He kept his head down, attempting to avoid drawing any unwanted attention. He was their lord’s personal lackey, envied by many because he was involved in every aspect of the Master’s activities while they were left unawares. He was also the only human who dwelled within the castle, a hearty meal should any of the castle inhabitants disobey the Master’s order to treat him as an equal.  

He stepped onto the beaten dirt path that ran around the west side of the courtyard, ignoring hateful glares cast in his direction. The sun had not yet peeked out, and though the darkness would wane within an hour, the courtyard was packed to the brim. He pushed his way through the throng of Undead, an endless sea of fanged bodies swarming around him. Though he’d lived with them since their community had been established, he was still enthralled by the booming business district outside Safehold Keep. 

Once the Master had seized the North End ward in the Bexley borough and all of London territory south of the Thames, he’d erected an enormous perimeter barrier around its southern border and created a civilization comprised solely of Undead. While his minions took over the world, their families—children, siblings, mothers, fathers, wives—had been ushered into south London, which was renamed Haven. The groundskeeper’s initial doubts of a raucous, unorganized bunch of Undead becoming civilized had been proven wrong. Under the Master’s leadership, the recreated city had flourished, resembling that of an average human establishment.  

There were vandals and looters, carpenters and mechanics, florists, vendors, police, firemen. Undead merchants had renovated and reopened abandoned shops, though only the most profitable were allowed within Castle Safehold’s walls. They sold electronics—televisions, cameras, and gaming systems; clothing—shoes, brand-name shirts and pants, and even undergarments and lingerie; vehicles; books and magazines; human blood; drugs.  

The groundskeeper never felt like he was in the company of blood-sucking vampires. It was like being in a busy marketplace in New York City. There were even punks running rampant, robbing Undead at arrow-point. 

An elbow jabbed into his side and the groundskeeper’s reminiscent thoughts were broken. A dull, throbbing pain brought him to his knees. He braced his moist ribs, injuring himself further, and fell to the ground. He gasped, short, ragged breaths hindered by the dirt his flailing limbs had disturbed. 

A short, young male knelt beside him and bent close. “Hello, old man,” he whispered. 

The groundskeeper recognized the man as Frank Hammers, an American drug smuggler who peddled his merchandise in Haven. Frank Hammers, son of the Undead Army’s General. Frank Hammers, the only one who would gain from his death. 

With the groundskeeper removed, Frank would become the vizier to the Master.  

It hadn’t been an elbow that caused his injury but rather a small green pocketknife that dripped crimson blood, gripped in Frank’s scaly hand. The blonde Undead scraped a finger over the blade and then placed the digit in his mouth, sucking. A crooked smile lit his face as his eyes rolled back until they were white.  

“Delicious,” he said, still sucking on his finger. 

The groundskeeper uttered a relentless string of curses between gasps. They gurgled, and spittle—not words—passed his lips. Everything was dull, out of focus. His thoughts were scattered and incoherent as more of his life seeped out into the dirt. 

Finally, may death claim me! 
 

No! There’s so much more to do! I’m not done yet!
 

Just give up!
 

A sudden hush fell over the courtyard. Frank returned to a standing position, biting his lip as a shadow engulfed him. A cherubic, balding man stepped into view and sat down, cradling the groundskeeper’s head as he continued gasping for breath. Strange grunts and hummed syllables flowed from the priest’s lips. His hands flew over the groundskeeper’s body, massaging. A sweet smell like that of roses wafted into the groundskeeper’s nose, numbing the pain. 

He was being robbed of death. 

Good, now I can continue with my plan.
 

You’ll never do it. You are weak, pathetic, not even human anymore.
 

Shut-up!
 

The groundskeeper placed his hands over his ears and thrashed his head, his breath no longer a burden to his frail lungs, sight sharper than ever. He relaxed, basking in the energy that flowed from the priest’s hands and into his body. The priest had wondrous powers.  

Magical powers. 

The priest lifted two jars out from within his robes. Rice-sized maggots squirmed in one. Slimy black creatures stuck to the glass inside the other, mouths wide. A handful of maggots was dropped on the groundskeeper’s ribcage, cleaning the exposed, tender meat beneath in seconds. Then several leeches were plucked out and placed on the wound. They squirmed on his ribcage, knitting together broken veins and stitching the skin flaps back together. 

The groundskeeper wouldn’t have been surprised if they took a little extra blood into their systems. They were a vampire cross-breed, a by-product of the Master’s recent experimentations. 

“What is this? Treachery, young Hammers?” questioned a deep, resounding voice.  

The crowd, which had gathered to sneer at the groundskeeper’s near-lifeless husk, stepped back in unison. They avoided the speaker’s burning gaze as it swept over them. 

“No, Lord. Such morals are beneath me,” Frank claimed in an even voice. “I’ve done nothing to denounce your orders, sir.” 

The groundskeeper spat at Frank’s shoes. “Master, he—” 

“Silence, worm!”  

The groundskeeper was yanked to his feet. One bony finger pointed to stifle further accusations.  

“You are the reason I am here right now. There are more important matters at hand, would you agree?” 

The groundskeeper nodded, averting his eyes.  

The Master faced Frank once more. “Young Hammers, you have shown so much potential. These actions are unlike your character.” 

“Lord, I’ve done nothing—” 

“I have eyes, fool!” the Master barked, eyes narrowed. “Do not insult me. You attempted to kill Ashmore. In public, nonetheless.” 

The groundskeeper flinched. 
Yes, I’m Ashmore. John Ashmore.
 

You are nothing. You are a nameless servant to His will. You shed yourself of humanity, vanquished to the recesses of your mind.
 

Be quiet or I’ll silence you forever myself!
 

Frank folded and unfolded his hands in front of him. Like a prisoner awaiting a verdict. 

The Master stepped forward and gripped the sides of Frank’s head, caressing his locks. “Your father will be greatly disappointed.” 

“Please don’t tell him,” Frank whimpered. “I’ll do anything to prove my worth.” 

The Master shushed him. “Oh, young Hammers, your father will not be as disappointed with you as he will be with me.” 

With one hefty tug, Frank’s head was torn from his body. Blackened blood spurted from an exposed vein in Frank’s neck, spraying John with a fine, cold mist.  

The body slumped to the ground with a sickening thud.  

The Master held the stump high, then levitated ten feet into the air. Frank’s mouth opened and closed like a fish underwater. “This, ladies and gentlemen, is—was—Frank Hammers,” the Master bellowed.  

Child and adult alike turned away.  

“He was to become my personal advisor one day, a humble noble in our society, a historical figure for all to praise and respect.” He flung the head to the ground. It bounced next to John’s foot. “This is his mark on society now, a reminder of what it means to defy my orders.” The Master bared his fangs and hissed at the crowd. “I gave you a new life, a society where you will only be persecuted for disobeying the few laws I have in place. Obey or die.” 

John kicked Frank’s stomach as hard as he could, enjoying what little revenge was left for him. 

“Leave this husk here. The sunlight will dispose of this wretched excuse for a vampire.”  

The crowd scattered.  

The Master descended to the ground, his cape rustling as he landed. He wore his navy blue uniform, the colors of their army. Ruffles on his shirt stemmed from his neck down to his waist, and the cuffs of the sleeves fell over his hands. His pants were also ruffled around the ankles, exposing little of the shiny black boots with gold buckles that he always wore when he prepared to greet guests.  

John knelt on one knee as the Master approached. “Master, I am humbled by your presence.” John paused, wondering why the voices in his head didn’t belittle him. Perhaps they were gone for good? He spoke so that no one—not even the priest, who was still within arm’s reach—could hear. “I have great news from the battlefield afar.”