Fear Mercy

by Fergal F. Nally

  Am I hit? No, all good. Keep your guard up, the bastards know we’re here now—

  The canal joined the Elizabeth River, docks and industrial wasteland sped by.

  We’re on the outskirts of the city—

  The boat slowed. Mercy glanced back, the sprayhood had been shredded by NSA bullets. Hicks was helping Pace.

  Shit, Pace’s been hit—

  The engines revved once more and the boat gathered speed, surging up the river. Cronin went to the cabin, leaving Mercy on the prow. Minutes later they slowed and turned into a side channel.

  Evasive action, lie low—

  Mercy scanned the buildings and wharfs on either side of the channel. Deserted buildings and vacant warehouses passed by. Tall grass and weeds pockmarked the concrete quays. Plastic sheeting flapped on barbed wire fences. The boat slowed and entered a small bay under a footbridge.

  Dead end, but it’ll do, the bridge hides us from above—

  Cronin appeared. “Pace got winged, lucky though, a flesh wound. Hicks is looking after him. The others are OK.” Cronin glanced around, “NSA will be searching for us. We need intel, we need eyes on top.” He pointed to a six storey building close to the wharf, “There’ll be a good view of the city from up there; we can get access to the roof by the fire escape. You, me and Rose… what do you say?”

  Mercy pulled a face, “Part of me thinks we should lie low, stay here, wait for dark. But yeah, I get it, we need to know where we are, where they are… let’s do it—”

  Minutes later they were at the base of the building’s fire escape. They climbed onto a dumpster to reach the retractable ladder. The fire escape was rusty but intact. Mercy gave the windows a wide berth as they climbed. She recoiled from the fourth floor window, the stench of rotting flesh lay heavy in the air. They made it to sixth floor, stopping just beneath the roof to listen. A rhythmic tapping sound came from above. Cronin went first, he peered over the top and climbed the last few steps.

  Mercy and Rose followed.

  Thank Christ. Roof’s clear—

  Rose frowned and gave Mercy a look. A flagpole stood at the far side of the building, a tattered NSA flag hung limp, at half-mast. Empty shell casings littered the roof, the flag cord slapped against the mast in the breeze. A maintenance door was stained with blood. Cronin strode over to the other side of the roof, his eyes on the sky. Mercy followed and looked beyond the building at the city to the north and east. Cronin pulled out his binoculars and surveyed the landscape.

  Mercy’s eyes were drawn to the Elizabeth River, she traced the route they had taken. The bridge they had passed under stood over two miles away. She swept her view along the water and upriver. Her gaze settled on another blockade ahead. Five barges straddled the channel, joined together by chains. A tangle of roads and buildings spread out on both sides, away from the banks. Mercy’s eyes narrowed.

  We want to stick to the river… we could slip through those barges at night. They’ll be expecting us… we’ll need to blow those chains so they’ll drift apart—

  Cronin grunted and handed the binoculars to Mercy. “Over there, across the water, it’s a railroad… marshalling yard. See the men on horses? And those others on foot? They’re unloading crates from that train. Could be NSA, but I’m not sure—”

  “Hey—” Rose called from behind. She was at the flagpole. “Take a look at this.”

  Mercy went over to Rose and examined a piece of twisted metal on the roof.

  “I know what this is… just can’t place it—” Rose chewed her lip.

  “It’s a heater of some kind, see the scorch marks there,” Mercy kicked the frame with her boot.

  Rose’s face lit up, “That’s it, it’s a burner… from a hot air balloon, you know? To heat up the air to fill the balloon.”

  Mercy raised her eyebrows, “You’re right Rose.” She glanced around, “There was some kind of fight here, some time ago. Looks as if the NSA were kicked off this building by… who knows?” Her eyes went to the sky.

  Cronin came over and eyed the discarded burner, “Bastards sometimes use balloons as observation posts. Looks as if this was destroyed a while ago. He turned back to gaze over the city, “We have two options; stick to the river or cross the city on foot—”

  “River,” Mercy said without hesitation. “One of your SEALs can lay a charge at night, blow the chains holding those barges together, they’ll drift apart and we can slip through and get to the James River, then… Chesapeake Bay—”

  Cronin nodded, “Yes, that’s got merit. The current will take our SEAL upstream after he’s laid the charges. Once we’re through, we can pick him up on the other side, he can signal with a red filter.” Cronin checked his watch, “It’s still early, we’ve got the rest of the day to kill before dark, let’s get back.”

  They spent the afternoon on the boat, the sun rising overhead and then starting its slow decline to the west. Mercy and the others dozed while Hicks and Cronin took watch. A low wail swelling into a high pitched shrieking sound woke Mercy. She sat up and reached for her SIG P226. Cronin and Hicks were watching the wharf opposite. Tropes were emerging from dark corners and alleyways.

  “It’s the sound, it’s bringing them out, look… they’re behind us too,” Flynn said, his voice taut.

  Tropes were collecting on the street and the dock area near the boat.

  “It’s the NSA… they’re using sirens to agitate the tropes, they’re trying to flush us out,” Cronin shouted over the noise.

  A few minutes later the sirens stopped and other, more distant sirens, began their dirge.

  “They must be covering the districts running along the river, trying to deny us a land route, forcing us to stay on the water,” Tawny said.

  Rose spat overboard, “Bastards.”

  “I think we need to reverse out of this channel. Those tropes are starting to pile up behind that fence, if it breaks open they’ll spill into the water near us,” Fay said.

  Cronin grunted and nodded at Pace. Pace, his upper arm bandaged, gunned the engines and reversed the boat out of the narrow channel into the middle of the basin.

  “Look at them, they’re in a hell of a state. They mustn’t have fed in weeks… months. Some of them can’t even walk—” Tawny observed.

  “Still deadly, just takes one bite—” Hicks countered.

  Mercy looked up at the sky then at Cronin, “What do you wanna do? Keep to the original plan? Wait here until dark?”

  “Don’t see that we’ve much choice, we’re safe enough out here, as long as we keep an eye on those things,” Cronin responded.

  They settled down and waited, keeping watch on the quays. The trope numbers continued to swell even after the sirens had abated. In every direction tropes shuffled and milled about aimlessly. Mercy lay in the bottom of the boat, her eyes skyward. She was gazing at the clouds overhead through half shut eyes when she became aware of a shadow low in the sky.

  Goddammit—

  Mercy sat up and pointed at the moving object, “NSA balloon, over there.”

  The black hot air balloon hung suspended five stories up, over the nearby warehouses. The NSA insignia was emblazoned across the balloon’s fabric. Three men with binoculars stood in the basket scanning the ground. One of the men shouted and pointed at the boat, another started speaking into a hand held radio.

  “Shoot them, shoot the bastards before they can relay our position,” Cronin yelled, raising his M16.

  Mercy, Hicks and Cronin unleashed a withering burst of fire at the balloon, peppering the basket and fabric. An explosion gripped the balloon as a bullet pierced one of the burner’s propane cylinders. Flames engulfed the basket and the balloon drifted across the basin, losing height. It crashed into a nearby warehouse, two of the NSA men were thrown from the basket, their clothes on fire. Tropes rushed towards the conflagration, they ignored the flames and attacked the burning men. The screams from the third man, still trapped in the basket, filled the air.

  Mercy looke
d away.

  “Horrible way to die,” Fay said.

  “Had to be done,” Hicks said. “This is war—”

  Cronin lowered his rifle, “They could’ve got a message through, we need to leave. Pace, let’s get moving.”

  Pace started the engines and turned the boat to face the river. They passed the burning balloon, a thick plume of smoke rose into the air.

  Well, that’ll be seen for miles—

  A deep growl came from the river ahead.

  Engines. Something big. Moving fast. Shit—

  Mercy gripped her pistol and looked back at Pace.

  He’s on it—

  Pace swung the boat into a side channel beneath a road and cut the engine. Cronin pointed at the floor, everyone dropped down. Seconds later, a large gunboat roared by, towards the dock basin and the burning balloon. A minigun burst into action spitting rounds into the crowd of tropes surrounding the balloon.

  “Shit, we’re fucked if there’s more than one of those things,” Sparrow groaned.

  Cronin crept up to Mercy, “We need to see what’s going on; see if the way back to the river is blocked. It may be a trap. There’s too many tropes up there for me and my men but you and Rose could walk right through them with your biotech. You can recon our options—”

  Mercy looked at the others, then at Rose, “You and me Rose, let’s go.”

  They climbed over the side and swam to the nearest steps. The steps brought them to an area of decking behind a small café. Mercy crouched and went over to a broken window. A shuffling noise came from inside.

  Shit, I hate his bit—

  She tapped the window frame and waited. A skinny trope with matted, shoulder length hair appeared at the window.

  No super tropes then. Good—

  Mercy climbed through the window followed by Rose. A second trope dragged its feet on the other side of the café. Mercy crossed the room to the far window and peered out. She pulled back and signalled to Rose.

  “Five NSA on the quayside, they’re combing the area, heading in this direction, keep down,” Mercy sat with her back against the wall and waited.

  One of the men peered through the quayside window and tapped the glass with his rifle barrel. The two tropes shuffled over and pressed their hands and faces up against the glass. The men moved around the side of the building towards the street. Mercy crept to the café entrance and watched the men through the rotting net curtains. The men walked down the street in a line.

  Don’t look down, keep your eyes on the street, please don’t look at the water—

  Mercy breathed a sigh of relief as the men passed over the small bridge. The men turned the corner at the end of the street and disappeared from view.

  Shit, they could come back this way… or maybe they’re taking that route for a reason—

  Mercy turned to Rose, “Rose get to the others, tell them the NSA have wasted the tropes on this side of the water and have put foot patrols on the streets. I’m going to follow this lot and see what they’re up to. I’ll come back once I know more—”

  Rose nodded and climbed out the rear window. Mercy looked outside again then opened the front door. She ran after the NSA patrol. Six shotgun blasts reverberated through the air as she reached the end of the street. She pulled in close to the wall and peered around the corner. Tropes were emerging from buildings on either side of the road, attracted by the gunfire.

  What the fuck—?

  Mercy glanced back, the two tropes from the café were shuffling down the road towards her.

  Those NSA men weren’t carrying shotguns, there must be someone else in the mix. Enemies of the NSA could be allies. I need to find out—

  Mercy stepped out from cover and moved down the street, mimicking a trope’s fractured gait. The tropes in the street were shuffling to the next intersection. They ignored her. Mercy strained to see what lay ahead; three bodies lay splayed across the tarmac.

  NSA bodies. They’ve been gunned down—

  Mercy took more jerking steps and made it to the intersection. She stopped in her tracks. On her right, a short distance away, six men wearing Samurai armour sat astride six large horses protected by padded armour. The men held shotguns, swords hung at their sides.

  Who are these guys? They look like players, they wasted these NSA. They could be useful—

  Mercy hesitated, then shouted, “Hey there… you men, wait up. I need to talk to you. I’m with the Resistance. I’m not NSA—”

  The man at the centre of the group swung his horse around and stared at Mercy. He brought his shotgun up and edged his horse forwards, “Don’t come any closer, raise your hands above your head where I can see them—”

  Mercy straightened up. Emaciated tropes shuffled past her, closing in on the horsemen. She nodded and lifted her hands, questions rushing through her head in a blur. A faint whisper swished on her left and a sharp pain stung her arm. She looked down. A tranquilliser dart protruded from her skin, she reached down to grab the dart. Her legs turned to jelly, her vision clouded.

  Oh—

  A wave of darkness swallowed her.

  Chapter 25

  Stadium

  Pain. Heat. Thirst.

  Mercy opened her eyes, her was head pounding, her tongue was stuck to the roof of her mouth. The sun nestled in an azure sky, strong and unforgiving.

  What happened? Where am I?

  Confusion held sway for a few seconds before her memory returned.

  Those men on horses—

  She sat up and took in her surroundings.

  Wait. What the hell—?

  She was on a raised platform at the centre of a football stadium. The words NORFOLK STATE SPARTANS were emblazoned across the stand at the end of the stadium.

  Jesus—

  Battered prefabricated huts, trailers and tents were crammed into the stadium. Thousands of emaciated tropes roamed the ground and elevated stands, the stench was overpowering. She rolled onto her side and retched, her meagre stomach contents souring her mouth. She groaned and felt something tug, she reached down and grabbed the card attached by string to her neck.

  Blinking, she read the scrawled words:

  You made a mistake trespassing on my turf. I have your friends. I know about your special ability but I want to see it with my own eyes. If you can get out alive from this old FEMA camp then I may have a job for you. In return, you might get your friends back. Over to you— Deadstick.

  “This has got to be a dream,” Mercy muttered to herself. She looked up, “Because it’s TOO FUCKING CRAZY—” she shouted.

  The word CRAZY echoed around the stadium, an eerie mockery of her voice. Mercy shaded her eyes and scrutinised the stands surrounding her.

  So this bastard is watching me. It’s showtime is it? Another sick bastard in a sick world. Well he’s got all the cards… for the moment—

  Mercy tore off the card and threw it down. She noticed the black sports bag a few feet away and approached it cautiously. She touched it with her foot and heard a metallic clink. She knelt down and opened the bag. It contained a Colt Peacemaker revolver, a rusty machete and a small bottle of water. She stared at the water.

  I’d be finished by now if he’d wanted me dead. Drink it, god knows, you need it—

  Mercy downed the water in three long gulps. Her head started to clear within minutes. She gazed out over the stadium, searching.

  There’ll be exits all over the place, but it’s been converted into a FEMA camp so the small exits may be blocked off—

  Mercy’s gaze settled on the two largest entrances on either side of the pitch. A disturbance behind made her turn. Movement rippled through the tropes in the high section of the stand, her eyes narrowed as she focused on the area. Other ripples started in the stadium. A second later realisation hit her.

  Super tropes—

  She saw them clearly; six super tropes pushing their way down the congested stand towards her.

  They can see me, get the fuck out of here—


  Mercy grabbed the revolver and machete and jumped from the podium to the football pitch below. She wound her way through the human detritus towards the south entrance tunnel. The tropes she encountered ignored her, continuing their mindless shuffling in the baking sun. Mercy glanced over her shoulder; the six super tropes were gaining on her, three having reached the pitch itself. She staggered over a collapsed tent, her boot connected with something hard. The sound of sloshing liquid made her pause. She slashed at the tent fabric with the machete. A red jerry can lay inside the tent, she grabbed it and ran, counting the steps to the players’ tunnel.

  These super tropes are silent, where’s the screaming? They usually scream—

  Mercy entered the tunnel and raced towards the darkness at the end. Two doors faced her; one open, one closed. She darted through the open door and was hit with the overpowering stench of putrefying flesh. She swung around, her hand pulling on the door.

  Goddammit, it’s stuck—

  Shuffling behind.

  Mercy swung around to face a trope in rotting paramilitary uniform. It held a road flare in one hand. Mercy side stepped and thrust the machete into the trope’s face. The trope crumpled to the floor dropping the flare.

  Footsteps in the tunnel.

  Mercy glanced up, six silhouettes were charging towards her, their feet smacking on the concrete floor. She lifted the fuel can and twisted the lid off, emptying the gasoline in the doorway and onto the tunnel floor. She stepped back, picked up the road flare and removed the cap. The super tropes reached the doorway.

  Here goes nothing—

  Mercy struck the tip of the road flare against the cap’s striking surface. The flare ignited with a hiss. She screamed and threw the flare into the gasoline. Light and searing heat enveloped her as she jerked back from the flames. In a heartbeat the corridor was an inferno. Mercy staggered away, her hand over her mouth. The super tropes writhed and twisted in the fire, their skin and flesh bubbling, their eyes melting.

  Eat that motherfuckers—

  Mercy retreated into the dark, distancing herself from the blaze and the stench of burning flesh. The room was damp and filling with smoke, she felt her way. Seconds later she found a wall and followed it. She imagined a changing room, her legs knocked against low benches, her fingers touched wire grids. She pushed deeper into the room, following the wall, the light from the burning tropes almost gone.