The Human-Undead War Trilogy (Book 1): Dark Intentions (40 page)

Epilogue

He was floating. This was death, then. He had always thought he was immortal, that Death’s bony hand could never touch him.  

Hatred roiled within him, stirring his once-beating heart. Killed by his own brethren, his own flesh-and-blood! He had given that meek human scientist a new life. He had bequeathed the abilities of a vampire unto that miserable human, had given him immortality and physical capabilities beyond his wildest dreams. 

He had created him as he was today, and Brian repaid him by killing him. 

Sweet, bitter irony. 

His body was jolted. The lurching, floating sensation ended. His eyelids were heavy. It was time to open them and behold the afterlife. He had to be in Hell. It was hot, as if the sun was beating down on him. His skin was wet and burned, like being buried in hot sand on a beach.  

Barnaby opened his eyes and gasped. He actually was on a beach, face-down, partially buried in sand, the sun beating down from above.  

Not Hell. Paradise? 

He rolled over onto his back, then sat up, squinting into the sunlight. He held up his right hand. There was no mistake. The ring was gone. The ring which, to his knowledge, had been the only source of his day-walking abilities. Yet there he sat below the sun in mid-afternoon without his precious magical ring. The ring, he recalled, which had been stolen by Brian. 

He glanced at his chest—bare, his shirt missing. The shaft of a wooden arrow jutted out of the middle of his breastbone. He laughed. Brain had missed the mark. Perhaps only by millimeters, but he was alive. He gripped the shaft and pulled outward, careful to pull straight out lest the wood splinter and pierce his heart. It slid out easily—there was the sound of a bone cracking, the suction of flesh and muscle being tugged on. But it didn’t matter. His regeneration abilities would soon kick in. 

Dark liquid oozed from the hole. He tossed the arrow onto the sand. He was woozy, disoriented. He had fallen into the Thames below his castle. Had he floated into the ocean from there? How many days had he drifted in the relentless water? How had he survived?  

Where was he? 

A wave of hunger washed over him. He glanced around: Sand and rocks for miles to his left and right. He stood, swayed, threw his arm out to catch himself from tumbling, then turned away from the water that had saved his life. 

Walking out of a stand of brush in front of him was a short, unshaven man. He wore cut-off jean shorts, a short-sleeved red-and-green flannel shirt and a tawdry old cowboy hat. The sight of a vampire washed upon the shore must not have bothered him. He strolled toward Barnaby, hands at his side. 

He stopped several feet away. “G’day, mate.” His crow’s feet deepened and elongated as he squinted. “Christ, boy, yer about as white as them vampires, you know that?” He smiled. His eyes were bloodshot, yet bold and piercing, teeth crooked and yellow.  

Barnaby gasped. The man had fangs. “Brother, it is I!” 

The short man scratched his head and frowned. “Don’t got no brothers in this part of the Outback.” 

Outback? 
Australia?
 How had he travelled from London to the smallest continent in the world?  

Barnaby shook the thoughts away. There would be time to sort it out later. “The fangs, my brother.” He curled his upper lip to expose his fangs. “I am one of you.”  

“Well, I’ll be! Didn’t think any other humans from other parts of the world took to puttin’ fangs on like we do. Where you from?” 

Barnaby hesitated. The man believed him to be a human wearing a false set of fangs. He had heard of ignorant humans such as these: Vampirons. A large group of humans isolated from society on the pretense that they were a secluded vampire nation. He had not thought they actually existed. No one was stupid enough to think vampires could not discern a human from their own kind. 

Well, this changes everything
, he thought. “England. Up north. Ship sank.” 

“That don’t look pretty,” the man said, nodding at the open hole in Barnaby’s chest. “How’d that happen?” 

“A bad shot,” Barnaby commented, stumbling, attempting to remain upright. Sharp hunger pangs stabbed at his innards. It was the strongest the sensation had been in centuries. “Please, brother. Help me.” 

The man walked to his side and stooped, draping Barnaby’s arm over his shoulder. “I only come down here once a week or so. Yer one lucky fella, to have washed ashore on this very day. One lucky fella, indeed.” 

They ambled off into the brush, Barnaby trying to hold on. Along the way, the man spoke of the latest gossip he had heard from fellow scouts. Something had been manufactured that would allow vampires to stop feeding on humans. London’s outer walls had been torn down, encouraging the intermingling of species. A peace treaty had even been signed amongst the factions in the United States. 

“That’s why we moved further inland,” the man said. His breath escaped in shallow gasps, and his heart thudded louder with each step. “We don’t want that kinda scum around here.” He glanced at Barnaby. “You hungry?” 

Barnaby nodded, surprised he had remained calm during the insult against his kind. 

“We got some fruits, warm ale, even some fish and other seafood too. Though yer sure to sick from ‘em without refrigeration and all. Just let me know what you want when we get there, mate. I’ll take care of ya.” 

Barnaby’s eyes rolled into his head as their skins touched. The warmth of the human made him mad with hunger, and the man’s heartbeat beckoned with a steady, hypnotic pulse. “Actually,” he said, leaning toward the man, “I was hoping I could just have you.”  

He swooped in, burying his fangs in the man’s neck while reaching for his throat, piercing flesh with his long nails. He ripped out the esophagus. No scream. 

Gurgling blood spouted from the gaping wound, splashing Barnaby’s face. He stopped feeding through the pinholes, let the man drop to the earth, and then squatted and lapped at the dying man’s gushing throat like it was a water fountain. With each gulp of rich human life, he felt his energy being replenished. While still enjoying his meal, he looked down at his chest. The hole that had housed the arrow closed up, leaving a wicked spider-shaped scar. 

Minutes later, Barnaby wiped blood from his chin. He inhaled, enjoying the rich tropical air. His senses were returning to full power. He could smell the other humans at the camp, a few miles away.  

The sun set. It brought a flutter to his chest. 
The night is my domain. I am king
. 

He looked at the mass of organs and blood and flesh that lay on the earth, staining the dirt and leaves. The man had been genuine, kind, helpful.  

An idiot, like most humans. 

And he had been correct about Barnaby’s streak of luck. He had survived a death-blow from a newfound enemy, had somehow survived weeks on the ocean without sustenance, could walk in daylight without his magical talisman, and was in the midst of the fabled Vampirons. He had much to be thankful for, but most of all, he was glad to be alive. 

He could still squeeze the life out of Koltz, take back his rightful throne, cast the world into utter darkness and chaos, seek out the Sunstone in Egypt.  

And with the platelet in existence, he could obliterate humanity and ensure his kingdom did not fall, as he had planned from the start. 

Some tiny animal skittered by in the dusk, breaking him from his reverie. He laughed and stalked off into the forest, using the man’s scent to guide him to the camp. 

***

The mouse skittered by Barnaby’s feet, then ran into some undergrowth. Soundlessly, the mouse transformed into a panther. Wary, luminous eyes followed Barnaby until he was out of sight.  

The panther slouched, slender shoulders bracing its sagging belly. It didn’t want Barnaby to return home and destroy the world, a world it had helped shape. But Barnaby was intelligent. He would soon wonder if it was possible to float such a distance, and how. The panther hoped its knowledge of oceanic currents—maps it had studied from before the SADAH missions—would make the situation plausible.  

Had it made the right choice, though? It couldn’t kill Barnaby outright, so it had driven him to this place, to the Vampirons. Once the hate-mongers saw what Barnaby was, they would attack with unmatched ferocity. Alone, Barnaby would die. 

Then Barnaby’s kingdom would die as well, and along with it all that had turned the world into a dark and foreboding place. 

And the panther would remain the anonymous yet true patriarch of the vampires. 

It let forth a note of sorrow in the night, then jumped onto the trunk of the nearest tree, sinking thick claws into wood. It jumped again, sprang into the air, and transformed into a giant bat, flying above the treetops. It turned toward the shoreline, leaving its son behind to a certain death, and beat its wings upon the currents of the howling air, heading toward Haven. 

Wild animals answered its painful cry.  

Then all grew quiet again.