Mercy squeezed around another obstacle and felt a breeze on the far side. Relief flickered through her, she needed to leave the stairwell and find her bearings. One of the zip wires she had seen from the street was on the twenty seventh floor, if she could reach it—
The door on the next floor was open allowing a draft in. She felt the drop in temperature and took a deep breath. Cigarette smoke tainted the air. Flyers, of course— they would have a guard manning the zip wire, they’d be trigger happy after the trope attack. She had seen Flyers using walkie talkies before— they were connected.
A series of shrieks came from the stairwell.
Tropes, move, move, move—
Mercy ran in a crouch across the open space in front of her. Scratching and banging erupted behind. She took the grenade and pulled the pin. Torchlight reached out from ahead piercing the darkness, she glanced behind, tropes filled the doorway twenty feet away. She threw the grenade at the tropes and flung herself behind a concrete pillar. She opened her mouth, closed her eyes and put her hands over her ears. A loud explosion filled the space, dust and debris filling the air. The concussive force of the blast shook the whole floor.
With ringing ears, Mercy blinked once then twice. The world adjusted itself, her vision steadied. She coughed and spat to clear her throat. The sharp pain in her side had returned, she reached down to the wound and felt a slick warmth. She had to get out.
Move… move… move.
She stood up and heard shouts ahead where the torch had been.
“Ready? Go, go, go—” a male voice.
She made a decision.
“Don’t shoot, don’t shoot. It’s Mercy Dawes, coming through. I need help—”
She didn’t wait, her body tensed expecting the worst, her life was of no concern to them but she could not stay where she was, more tropes would come. The trope incursion felt like an invasion not just a random attack.
Mercy coughed and stumbled towards the male voice, her hair and face covered with dust. Weak candle light illuminated the area. A makeshift barricade surrounded a zip wire anchor point. She’d been right; this was the twenty seventh floor— her way out.
A man stepped out of the shadows, M16 automatic rifle in hand. “Mercy Dawes? Long time— you look like a ghost, you did a good job mashing them tropes up there. Stevie tells me you bought him some time down there. Reckon I owe you. Wanna bug outta Dodge?”
Mercy didn’t recognise the man but she nodded. “Yeah, more tropes on the way. They’re all over the place. Something’s up.”
“You ever used a zip wire before?” he said.
She thought of the zip wires she had seen on television before the Fall. “Sure, let’s go.”
Something behind her caught his eye, he lifted the M16 and opened fire. “Bring it motherfuckers, Lincoln’s waiting for ya—”
Mercy threw herself on the floor and glanced behind. Tropes everywhere, on the ceiling, on the walls, moving like lightening. She turned around, saw the zip wire and harnesses. No time for a harness— she looked over the edge of the building— twenty seven floors up. Rain hit her face, the zip wire disappeared into the night, its pulley handles wet, its seat swinging in the wind.
The M16 behind her went quiet, a strangled gurgle followed. Blood sprayed the floor in front of her. Mercy grabbed the zip wire handles and threw herself over the edge into the night. A rabid trope threw itself after her falling away on her right. A trope landed on the zip wire behind and raked her back, she could feel its nails through her jacket.
Gravity pulled her down at frightening speed, the pulley made a high pitched whine as she shot through the air. Wind and rain tore at her face, her muscles ached and her arms started cramping. The far building loomed closer, the zip wire disappearing through a broken window. Her eyes locked onto a light flickering in the darkness beyond the window.
Keep holding on. Make it to the light, make it, go, go, go—
The pulley snagged and slowed, then stopped with a jerk, her body swung wildly.
Mercy’s right hand cramped and she screamed in pain. She was twenty feet from the window. A two hundred foot drop lay below. Her scream disappeared into the night, frustration not fear coursed through her. To be so close to safety, only to fail at the last hurdle. Her left hand started to slip.
“Hold on,” a voice said from below.
A vibration through the zip wire freed the pulley, she started moving. She couldn’t hold on any longer, she lost her grip just short of the window and fell.
Chapter 3 Boy
Shock gripped Mercy, she had failed.
She felt an impact, the breath was knocked from her, her head snapped back hitting a soft surface. She lay stunned, the falling had stopped, a gentle rocking remained. She was alive, something had caught her.
“Don’t move, I’ve got you—” the same voice as before. A lifebuoy ring attached to a rope flew through the air and landed on the net beside her. She reached out and grabbed it.
“Get into it, I’ll pull you up,” the voice shouted.
Mercy struggled into the ring and held onto the rope as best she could, her hands were almost useless, their strength gone. The safety net caught her eye as she was hoisted up.
Clever bastards these Flyers—
Mercy shivered and closed her eyes willing her hands to hold on. A loud boom from the tower behind ripped through the night. Glass and debris rained down, a chunk of concrete tore away the safety net.
Voices above, “Shit, bastards got Lincoln—”
Hands reached from the dark and hauled her in.
Mercy’s legs buckled, strong arms grabbed her on either side. Her head spun and her side ached. They carried her across the room to a bench and laid her down.
“Come on Flynn, let’s go, this place will be next. We’ll regroup with the others back on West 8th.”
“What about her? She saved Stevie, you heard what Lincoln said.”
“We’ve saved her, we’ve done our bit, look at her, she’ll hold us up. Come on Flynn, let’s go.”
Silence, then, “You go Rites. I’ll stay with her. I’ll catch up, meet you back at West 8th.”
A pause. “Flynn. Don’t be stupid, you’re talking shit. Come on man, let’s go—”
“No, I’m staying… now leave.”
“Flynn— OK, it’s your funeral. Here take this, and use the sewers to get away.”
The sound of footsteps echoed off the concrete walls.
Mercy groaned. The pain in her side burned like a hot knife, she was shivering.
“How on earth did you make that jump girl? That was something else— you’re coming with me.”
Mercy felt herself being lifted. Pain overwhelmed her and darkness descended.
~
Flickering. Light. Headache.
Mercy opened her eyes, blurred images flooded in, she was thirsty and felt sick, the pain in her side was different, dull. She blinked and licked her lips.
“Here, drink this.” A young man’s face came into view, he held a bottle to her mouth, she took a sip. Water. She took a long pull and swallowed, then another. When she’d had her fill she lowered her head again.
“Where am I? Who are you?” Mercy asked.
“I’m Flynn. You saved my brother Stevie, from the tropes, he’s safe now. You’re in a vault, one of our safe rooms, near Central Park. I brought you here, you had glass fragments in your side, I took them out and stitched you up. Given you a shot of antibiotics too, couldn’t ask you if you were allergic to anything, you were unconscious. You’re still alive so— all good.”
“How long have I been out?” Mercy asked.
“Day and a half.”
“Jesus,” Mercy said. “What happened back there? The tower was swarming with tropes.”
“Don’t know. Something stirred them up real bad. It was as if they were—”
“Organised,” Mercy said.
“Yeah, organised,” Flynn agreed.
Mercy’s head was clearing
with the water, she took in the room and her companion. He was young, eighteen or nineteen. Dirty face, short hair, hazel eyes. A scar ran along his neck.
“What happened there?” she asked, pointing at the scar.
Flynn touched his neck. “Hit by an arrow meant for a trope.”
Mercy nodded, “Friendly fire’s a bitch.”
“Ain’t it just,” he replied. He held her gaze then looked away.
“Thanks for patching me up,” Mercy said.
“No problem, thanks for helping Stevie. He got away with the others, probably back at West 8th Street, living the dream.”
Mercy sat up holding her side. “Yeah, we’re all living the dream. So what’s your plan Flynn?”
“Here, take these, painkillers and more antibiotics.” He handed her some pills. “I’m aiming to get back to West 8th Street and meet up with the others. I don’t know how many made it out of the tower—”
“Your crew were hunting in Central Park?” Mercy asked.
“Yeah, hunting’s good at the moment,” Flynn replied.
“You think the tropes smelt the blood from your kills?”
“I don’t know, maybe? But they’ve never come after us in the tower before. Jesus, we were on the thirty fourth floor,” Flynn said.
“Well, you had other zip wires up there maybe some of the others got out too?”
“Yeah, well. We’ll see.”
Mercy swallowed the pills with a swig of water. A day and a half in this vault?
She had to leave and make sure her stash was safe. She needed to replace the kit she had lost in the tower. Hell, if the tropes were restless maybe she needed to move out of Midtown. She had often looked out over the Hudson River and wondered if things were the same in Jersey, Newark and beyond. Maybe if she could make it to the country— maybe, one day.
One step at a time, one day at a time, one breath at a time.
Mercy looked at her watch, 5:15 pm, too late to start out now. She would leave tomorrow, she looked around the vault.
“Impressive,” she said. “So, you’ve got safe rooms all over the city?” Mercy knew the Flyers were one of the most organised gangs in the city, they had safe houses and stashes everywhere, she knew the locations of a few, having followed gang members on occasion. Knowledge was strength, knowledge was survival.
Flynn opened his mouth then hesitated. “Yes,” he said, “we do, but you know that.”
She looked at him again. Something about him was familiar, she could not place it. She blinked, the spell was broken, it would come.
“What about you? You have a crew? Were you separated from them? Why were you alone?” Flynn asked.
Mercy cringed. This was where the questions started, she wasn’t good with people.
Trust no one. Be prepared for anything. Lie. Cover your tracks, double back, lie again.
Her inner voice recited the mantra, she looked away. She’d give him her standard story; half-truths and lies.
“I’m from Watsons, the orphanage. When the phage virus struck I was in hospital, having tests. The pandemic struck the city, the hospital was overwhelmed. They needed beds, I got sent home, but by then the haemorrhagic fever had come to the orphanage and people had… turned. I hid in the gardens with a few others until the screaming stopped.” Mercy paused as the memories came back, she hated doing this, she had it all locked down, but the damage was just beneath the surface.
To hell with it— everyone had scar tissue. “Me, Tiny and Joe, hunger drove us out. We left the gardens and went back into the orphanage, there were bodies everywhere, you know, chewed up and everything. We took what food we could find and left. Tiny had the idea of going to a hotel, said we could get up on the roof and see what was going on, there’d be food and bedrooms— think he saw it as an adventure.
Mercy sighed. “Tiny never made it, Joe neither. Been on my own ever since. Had a brush with the Angels once, they wanted me to join, they were having trouble with the Preacher after the Fall. I managed to help their leader Laurient, but a lot of her girls didn’t make it. People don’t seem to live long when I’m around— I operate better alone.”
Flynn was silent then said, “Stevie made it… thanks to you.”
Mercy looked up, the ghost of a smile on her face. “One of Stevie’s booby traps nearly wasted me back in the tower. Tell me about him.”
Flynn nodded, grinning. “That’s Stevie, he’s twelve, been fighting tropes and freaks ever since the Fall. Sometimes thinks he’s better than any of us, he’s a bit like you; goes off on his own. He likes to roam out there, he takes risks. Don’t know what he gets up to half the time. He comes back with real treasures; diamonds, emeralds and weapons. In fact it was him that discovered this place, he even got the electronic door lock working using batteries. He’s got a thing about diamonds and jewellery stores.
“He’s been all over the city. Says he can cover more ground when he’s alone. I’ve tried to talk to him, but he won’t listen. He disappeared for a couple of weeks once, thought he was dead, we sent out scouts to find him. They came back empty handed, then he turns up, redeemed himself as usual. Found a whole stash of ammo and food on the Upper East Side— lasted us months. It wouldn’t surprise me if he’d been across to Jersey somehow—”
Mercy looked up. “What makes you say that?”
Flynn caught her eye. “Just something he said about the Holland Tunnel—”
“The Holland Tunnel? But that’s flooded, everyone knows that.” Mercy said. “What did he say?”
Flynn shrugged, “Nothing really, he’s just spent a lot of time around the piers and tunnels—”
“The bridges were blown and the tunnels flooded by the military as part of the quarantine,” Mercy said. “Except for the Henry Hudson Bridge beyond the north wall,” she added.
Flynn nodded, “And the freaks still insist on using the parts of the tunnels above water and the subways—”
Mercy nodded. “Yeah, the freaks. Bastards. Had a run in with them once. Sometimes I think they’re worse than the tropes.”
“At least with the tropes it’s over quick, the freaks just want to keep you alive and eat your flesh piece by piece.” Flynn said, his lip curling. “If those bastards ever take me… I’ve got a bullet with my name on it.”
“Damn right,” Mercy said.
A pause.
Then Flynn spoke. “So, you recovered from your illness? You mentioned test results—”
There it was— she knew he’d ask about the hospital tests.
She’d overheard the doctor telling the Social Worker her diagnosis— Urbach-Wiethe disease. She Googled it as soon as she returned to the orphanage. The lack of fear, a rare genetic disorder, only four hundred reported cases since 1929, discovered by Eric Urbach and Camillo Wiethe. Variable symptoms; with her it was the complete lack of fear and her attention to detail that was remarkable.
“Yes, I recovered,” Mercy lied, closing the topic down.
Another pause. “So, what about you Flynn? Tell me about yourself.”
Flynn picked up a Colt Python revolver from the table. “Don’t worry, I’m just cleaning it,” he said. “Me? Well I’m from Jersey City, raised in Greenville, I know— enough said. The virus was the best thing that ever happened for me, a few more years and Greenville would’ve killed me. Those were bad days, I was trying to protect Stevie and bring money into the house. Mom worked two jobs and just about made the rent, we needed extra for food and clothes…”
“What about your father?” Mercy asked.
Flynn stopped cleaning the revolver and looked at the wall. “Bastard walked out on us, went on a long haul to San Diego and never came back.”
Mercy snorted. “Adults eh?” She sighed, her pain had diminished to a dull ache with the painkillers, her head felt dull, her thoughts slow. She realised how tired she was, she needed to sleep but knew it would be impossible. Just do what you usually do, lie still and close your eyes, rest is as good as sleep. Who needs sleep? She loo
ked around the vault. Food for a few days, a stash of water, candles and blankets.
“Regular Hilton you got here. So what’s your plan for tomorrow? I take it you’ve got the code for the lock?” Mercy asked.
Flynn nodded. “Sure do, this place is ventilated, it’s got a conventional lock and an electronic lock. We got both working, them’s the keys,” he pointed at a bunch of keys in the corner. “It’s all good, except for one thing…”
Mercy looked at him. “We’re blind aren’t we?”
Flynn nodded, “Safe but blind.”
“No idea what’s going on out there at all?” Mercy said.
“You got it,” Flynn said.
“Well that sucks.”
“Situation normal then.”
Mercy looked at her watch. “OK, so let’s break out some food and play cards. You got cards?”
Flynn shook his head. “No cards, just old magazines.” He put the Colt down and pulled out a box of tinned food from under the table. He pushed it over to her with his foot. “Take your pick.”
Mercy had a look. “Macaroni cheese and pineapple chunks—” she laughed. “How come when humanity’s on its knees all that’s left is macaroni cheese and pineapple chunks? No wonder tropes prefer to suck blood and freaks just chew your leg off.”
They made eye contact, the tension evaporated, they laughed.
“Stop— don’t make me laugh— it hurts,” Mercy pleaded holding her side.
Flynn pulled a straight face which just made things worse. Two minutes of painful laughter later Mercy lay exhausted on the floor starting at the ceiling, tears drying on her face. She noticed a ventilation grille in the corner.
“You’re right, the air is fresh,” she said.
Flynn didn’t respond, his eyes were closed, a pained expression on his face.
Mercy continued to stare at the grille. She rubbed the tears from her eyes and stood up.
The Survival Chronicles (Book 1}: Mercy Kill Page 2
