Fear Mercy

by Fergal F. Nally

  Shuffling. Stench. Rotting flesh.

  Mercy knew what surrounded her, she stepped into the densely packed tropes, feeling the wall with her hands.

  Tiles. Smooth surfaces. Damp.

  Showers, must be the showers—

  A gap in the wall. Pushing, shoving bodies.

  Move, don’t think—

  A narrow corridor, trope breath in her face. Dark hell. Pawing at her clothes, at her skin. Sticky floor.

  Keep going, keep—

  A door, a metal surface.

  A fire door—

  She reached down and found the panic bar and pushed. The door opened a fraction, then refused to move. Chains pulled tight on the other side.

  Shit, shit, shit—

  Dim light filtered in.

  Pushing from behind. Agitation building. Jostling... and in the distance, from the other room, screams.

  They’re coming—

  Mercy crouched, turning sideways, she pushed herself through the gap, under the chains. The doors compressed her ribs, pain surged along her spine, her feet scrabbled against the concrete. She exhaled and contorted herself, pushing and pulling against the chains. Her vision grew blurry, her muscles burned.

  Then she was through, sweating, trembling, lying on the floor outside, her breath rattling, shallow. Trope arms reached through the gap after her, searching for flesh, their pushing and shoving more frantic. The doors bulged outwards, restrained by the chains. Mercy’s breathing settled, she stood up.

  Shit, lost the machete—

  She checked the Colt Peacemaker and glanced around at the sunken, subterranean level. Concrete walls lined the space, stairs and daylight beckoned on the right.

  Get out of here—

  Mercy took a step towards the stairs, the pounding behind her became louder. Movement caught her eye in the far corner, she halted, bringing the Peacemaker up. A female trope appeared out of the dark, long hair obscuring her face. The trope was dragging its leg. Mercy swore and brought the revolver to bear. A blurred shape swept out from under the stairs taking Mercy by surprise. The super trope rose to its feet and launched itself at Mercy, its arms outstretched.

  Mercy stepped back, she squeezed the trigger.

  Nothing.

  The super trope’s eyes locked with hers.

  Single action—

  The words buzzed through her brain like fire on rails. Her left hand shot across and struck the Peacemaker’s hammer four times. Three .45 calibre rounds missed but the fourth slug hit the super trope in the throat smashing its spine. The trope fell to the floor, its mouth gaping, the power gone from its arms and legs.

  Mercy turned to the shuffling female trope and kicked its bad leg at the knee joint. The trope’s knee crunched and it sunk to the ground, its face contorted in a rictus of hunger.

  I’m not on the menu, bitch—

  Mercy bounded up the stairs, two steps at a time.

  Two rounds left, no more… please—

  Mercy reached the top of the stairs, blinked in the sunlight and froze. Three men on horseback occupied the sidewalk outside the stadium.

  “Nice job, Mercy Dawes. I must say I’m mighty impressed with your special… skills,” the middle man drawled, leaning forwards in his saddle.

  How does he know my name—?

  Mercy took in the hooded eyes, the greasy ponytail, the scorpion tattoo.

  The man cocked his head, listening. “You sure stirred up some shit down there, you’d better come with us before those things bust out.” He held out his hand and smiled, revealing a row of gold teeth.

  Mercy heard the stadium doors burst open below.

  “I’ve still got two rounds left,” she raised the Peacemaker. “I could ruin your day—”

  The man gave her a smile, “But what would be the point? Especially as I’ve got your friends.”

  Trope screams rose from the stairwell.

  “People call me Deadstick,” his eyes flicked to the stairs behind Mercy. “I’d say you’ve got about four seconds to make a decision.”

  Mercy reached up and took his hand, “Get me out of here before I change my mind.”

  Deadstick pulled her up onto his mount and let out a yell, his heels digging into the horse’s flanks. The animal snorted, it jumped forwards and galloped down the freeway. Mercy closed her eyes and held onto its mane. Deadstick held the reins, his stale sweat enveloped her, bile stung the back of her throat.

  Keep it together—

  The next thirty minutes passed in a blur of city streets, burnt out buildings, new and old barricades. Mercy frowned.

  Why haven’t I been blindfolded—?

  She looked around. The horsemen had slowed to a trot and seemed more relaxed. The street was clear. They reached a tall building surrounded by a wall of vehicles.

  Impressive barricade… that would’ve taken some doing. This guy’s a player… a warlord—

  The end of a freight container jutted out of the wall into the street. Its doors opened as they approached, a handful of armed men and women emerged, forming a defensive fan.

  Deadstick’s sour breath spilled over Mercy from behind, “Welcome to my home Mercy Dawes. It’s not the Hilton, well actually it is, but not as you’d know it—”

  The horses entered the freight container and emerged on the other side into an open area filled with polytunnels and raised growing beds.

  People, fortifications, food. This guy is organised, he could be useful, he could get us up Chesapeake Bay—

  They dismounted outside a steel and glass entrance. Mercy’s eyes swept over the grand foyer inside. Deadstick stood beside her and issued orders to the crowd that had gathered around them. He finished and turned to Mercy.

  “I’ll let you rest, you’ve been through an ordeal. We’ll talk later, you’ll be looked after,” he gestured to one of his crew. “Magenta will take care of you—”

  A young woman with purple hair and dark eyes stepped forwards. Two long knives were strapped to her thighs, a Saiga 410 shotgun hung from her shoulder. “Follow me.”

  Mercy raised her hand and turned to Deadstick, “Wait, I’ll rest enough when I’m dead. You said you had a job for me, you said you’re holding my friends. We need to talk now. I need proof of life before I work for you. I want to see my people—”

  Deadstick stopped and flashed a golden smile. “That’s what I like to hear, time is money after all, even these days.” He paused, appraising Mercy, “Sure, why not? You’ll get your proof of life, then we can talk business. Magenta… take our guest up to the roof. I’ll join you there in twenty minutes.”

  Magenta and two others escorted Mercy to the roof, climbing twenty-one storeys using the internal stairs. They reached the last step. Mercy was breathless, her chest heaving. Magenta was composed, cool.

  You’re one fit bitch—

  Mercy’s eyes darted to the roof as Magenta opened the access door. They emerged out onto an open, flat area, a helipad visible in the distance. A knot of armed men was gathered fifty yards away, in the remains of a rooftop garden. Magenta led Mercy to a table and chairs. She reached into a cooler, pulled out a can and handed it to Mercy.

  “Beer?” Magenta asked.

  “Don’t mind if I do,” Mercy took the can and popped the tab, taking a slug of ice cold beer.

  “Travels smooth, don’t it?”

  Mercy heard footsteps behind and turned to face Deadstick. He handed her a pair of Steiner military binoculars. He nodded at one of his men, “Do it.”

  The man brought a walkie-talkie to his mouth, “Bring them out.”

  Mercy looked across the roof. An access door opened. Cronin, Hicks and Pace stepped out, blinking in the daylight. They were followed by the others. Mercy counted and listed the names off in her head.

  Tawny, Flynn, Rose, Fay, Sasha, Sparrow, Bird—

  Mercy brought the binoculars to her eyes and examined her friends’ faces. Their hands were bound, their legs chained. Concern washed over her.

&
nbsp; “What happened? Our boat? How’d you get them away from the NSA?” her voice cracked.

  Deadstick shuffled, “Oh, we got lucky, we reached them before the other NSA gunboats got there. See… we own the streets, the NSA like to think they own the streets… but we do. They, however, own the water with their boats and guns. They have the run of the old Naval Base. I do business with them from time to time; that’s how I heard about you. The NSA, they appreciate my… ah… merchandise. In return, I get information and certain favours.”

  Mercy put the binoculars down, “You’ve fed my friends? Given them water?”

  Deadstick snorted, “Of course, we’re not savages. We had to relax them a bit though, one or two of your people were quite… high-spirited. But that’s neither here nor there. There you go, there’s your proof of life. Now we can talk business.” Deadstick’s tone hardened.

  Mercy watched as he walked to the edge of the roof. He waved her over and pointed in the distance.

  “See over there? To the east of the stadium? Where the trees meet the city? That’s where my competition lives; in the old Botanical Gardens. Riker’s dug in there, like a flea in a dog’s arse. He’s a problem for me, one I can’t solve. He’s holding two of my people, forcing them to work for him. I want you to use your special skill to free them. And I want you to kill Riker for me. He’s been a thorn in my side ever since this city went under—”

  Mercy focused the binoculars on the green area. She frowned as she processed the information.

  “That’s a large compound; high walls, gates, wire and… wait, what the hell—?”

  Deadstick spat on the ground. “Well, you can’t exactly miss it, can you—?”

  “There’s thousands of them… outside the walls. Tropes, they’re penned in, like a—”

  Deadstick sighed, irritation on his face, “Moat. Yeah, it’s a fucking moat of tropes.”

  Chapter 26

  The Deal

  Deadstick put a toothpick in his mouth and started chewing it. He took the binoculars from Mercy and looked at the distant compound. “I used to work with Riker in the meth business back in the day. We owned this city and Virginia Beach, even got some D.C. action. They were good days, until this shit hit the fan,” he gestured at the city and turned to Mercy. “Way I see it is, you can bust in there, get my people out and kill Riker for me. Then I give you back your friends and help you on your way. Win win. Everyone’s happy. What do you say—?”

  Mercy stared at him before answering, “What’s so important about your two people?”

  Deadstick cracked a smile, reached into his pocket and pulled out some photographs. He gave them to Mercy, “These are my people; they’re valuable to me. Billy-Ray… he’s like family, he’s got a talent for making things go boom, and the Professor… she’s… well, I’ll let you figure that one out. That last one is Riker—”

  Mercy examined the photographs. “An explosives expert and a chemist, yeah, I’d say they’re pretty hard to find nowadays, it’s a sellers’ market.” She looked past Deadstick at her friends, “If I agree to do this I’m gonna need one of my people to help me out—”

  Deadstick frowned and turned to look at his captives, “Let me guess; Mr. Gym Candyman at the end?” He pointed at Cronin.

  Mercy shook her head, “No, the girl in the middle; Rose. She has the same ability as me, courtesy of Cobalt Biotech—”

  Deadstick rubbed his hands together, “You know you’ve got a NSA bounty on your head? I should really turn you in, make a trade with them—” he paused, watching Mercy’s reaction.

  Mercy remained inscrutable.

  “You’re good, you’re really good, you know that?” Deadstick flashed his gold teeth. His demeanour changed, “No, I won’t do that, no one trusts the NSA, they’re not reliable, they don’t understand business—”

  “They’re bastards—” Mercy finished.

  “So then, I’ll give you your friend Rose and return your weapons plus anything else you need to pull this off. Once Riker’s dead and I’ve got my people back… well then, it’s happy days for you and your friends—”

  Yeah, like I’m gonna trust you—

  “So we’ve got a deal then?” Deadstick held out his hand.

  Mercy’s lip curled but she took Deadstick’s hand. “We’ve got a deal—”

  Deadstick sighed and closed his eyes. “This is going to be beautiful, I know it, I can feel it, it’s all good.” He turned to Magenta, “Magenta, you heard the plan. Look after our guest here, reunite her with… Rose, sort out the details.” He gave Mercy a cold look, “You go in tonight. You’ve got twenty fours to deliver—”

  Mercy watched him walk away.

  The world is run by psychopaths, but then again I guess it always was—

  Rose was not happy. “What the fuck, Mercy? You agreed to do what?”

  Mercy’s eyes flashed a warning, “Like I had a choice?”

  Rose slumped down in a chair beside the table, clenching her fists. “I feel like shit, the others are back there somewhere, in cells, being held. You know if we don’t pull this off they’ll probably be killed, they’re just more mouths to feed—”

  “Rose, Rose,” Mercy held up her hand. “I know, I know… but it’s the only way out, he holds all the cards and you know it—”

  Rose’s face crumpled, “Yeah, I’m just so fed up being pushed around by fucking men—”

  “I hear you—” Mercy sighed, she signalled to Rose pointing at her ears then at the door and the room’s air vents. She lent in to Rose, whispering, “They’ll be listening to us.”

  Rose nodded her understanding. “Why in hell is he called Deadstick anyway?”

  Mercy shrugged, “Magenta said back in the day he was flying a drug cartel plane, the engine failed, he did a deadstick landing… anyway he saved the cartel about ten million dollars’ worth of cocaine. He’s been Deadstick ever since—”

  Rose grunted, staring at the door. “Well how hard can Riker’s compound be? We’ll waltz in there, through thousands of tropes and then what—?”

  Mercy sat at the table, “I’ve discussed the details with Magenta. Riker’s compound is divided in two. A front and rear section. The rear section’s the redoubt. There’s an inner wall with a sliding gate and an outer wall with an entrance gate. There’s also an underground system of tunnels and rooms where people and supplies are kept.”

  Rose listened, her face serious.

  Mercy continued, “Magenta thinks that Billy-Ray and the Professor are being held below ground. So, the plan is: we get to the compound wall through the tropes and climb over. We disable the inner gate so it can’t be shut, we get to the outer gate and open it allowing the tropes into the compound. They’ll provide the diversion we need to bust into the underground level and do the rest—”

  Rose closed her eyes, processing the information. “How many people are we talking about, in this compound?”

  “Fifty, fifty-six, give or take. Oh, and I forgot, they’ve got dogs too—”

  “Of course they do—” Rose exhaled. “Say we somehow manage to pull this off and get back here in one piece, what’s in it for us? Apart from the obvious double cross with… what’s his name? Dead drop—?”

  Mercy held a hand up, “Don’t Rose, don’t antagonise him, he’s a… type, you know that. He could be useful. Magenta says the NSA patrols the Chesapeake pretty well with their gunboats. So, even if we had our boat, which we don’t, we’d stand a pretty good chance of being blown out of the water—”

  “And your point is—?” Rose shifted in her seat.

  “So, apparently the NSA have spent a lot of time pumping water out of the Hampton Roads Bridge Tunnel so that they can truck supplies to Washington. Norfolk Naval Base has supplies of everything for like… years. The other tunnels and bridges were flooded or damaged during the Fall. But the Hampton Roads Bridge Tunnel is now open for business. The NSA have a fortified truck park on Willoughby Spit just across from the Naval Base. Deadstick h
as a contact inside the NSA, we could get into the truck park, stowaway on one of the container trucks and get across the James River to Hampton on the other side—”

  Rose raised an eyebrow.

  “I know, I know, there’s a lot of trust in that equation… and a lot of unknowns,” Mercy ran her fingers through her hair.

  “A lot of variables and room for a double cross,” Rose muttered.

  Mercy flashed a look at Rose and glanced at the door.

  Rose’s face softened. “OK, OK, so we’re doing this thing, we’ve got a plan, sort of. It sounds as if we’ll be winging it. We’ve got our gear back, plus pistol suppressors. This Magenta, can she get us frags, smoke grenades, flash bangs? NVGs?”

  “Yes, yes and yes,” Mercy nodded. “All taken care of, plus rope, a grappling hook, torches, wire cutters, crowbar, all that stuff. No night vision though, that shit is rare.”

  “Well then,” Rose put her feet on the table. “When are we off?”

  Mercy checked her watch, “In three hours—”

  “Three hours? Just enough time for food, a shower and to figure out an exfil plan—”

  Mercy rubbed her neck and closed her eyes, “My thoughts exactly.”

  Three hours later they were in position. The Botanical Gardens lay ahead, the area around Riker’s compound was sealed off with overturned trucks and stacked shipping containers. Gaps had been sealed to ensure the tropes within could not escape. Magenta stood beside Mercy and Rose on the fifth floor of an airport building overlooking the gardens five hundred yards away.

  Rose rubbed her chin. “Yeah, them tropes are sure packed in there. I can see why your boss can’t get to Riker, that place is sewn up tight.”

  “Tighter than a duck’s ass,” Mercy muttered.

  “Well, they won’t be expecting us and we can move through tropes… and we’re going in at night, so maybe—” Rose sounded unconvinced.