“Help me pull the table over,” Mercy said.
“Why?” Flynn looked puzzled.
Mercy pointed at the grille. “I want to listen.”
Flynn’s face was blank. Then he frowned, looking at the grille. “OK, but I don’t know what you think you’ll hear— I don’t hear anything.”
“We’ve been talking. Come on just do it,” she replied.
Flynn stood up and helped her move the table. She climbed onto it and stood under the grille listening.
“Nothing—” Flynn said.
Mercy waited a few seconds longer. “Nothing,” she agreed. She climbed off the table and they returned it to the side of the room. As she went back to the mattress a dull crash came from the other side of the door.
Mercy looked at Flynn. “They’re outside.”
“Shit,” Flynn stared at the door, his fists clenching.
Chapter 4 Escape
“Shit,” Flynn repeated.
“How many rounds you got?” Mercy asked.
“Three,” Flynn answered.
“We’re screwed,” Mercy said. She looked around the room.
“They’ve never shown this level of—” Flynn said.
“Intelligence?” Mercy finished for him.
“Intelligence, organisation, whatever. They’re hunting us. I did all the right things last night, left no trace, double backed, made sure nothing was following us,” Flynn said.
“You must’ve carried me, maybe it was my wound? Even a small drop of blood and tropes will hone in—” Mercy suggested.
“Yeah, I carried you. Yeah, no, about your wound… maybe. I don’t know,” Flynn replied. “Shit—” he hit the table in frustration.
“What’s over here?” Mercy moved to a pile of supplies at the back of the room. “Torch, batteries, hunting knife, backpacks, hey what’s this?” She held up two canisters.
Flynn looked up. “Smoke— I think, or no, one of them’s smoke the other’s tear gas. We raided the police station, took most of the stuff back to West 8th, guess they got left behind…” he stopped and looked at Mercy. “Wait a minute—”
“We can use them,” Mercy said selecting a pack for her new supplies.
“If the tropes tracked us because of your wound, the tear gas should put a stop to that—” Flynn said.
“And the smoke could buy us cover leaving the building, or at least allow us to get a head start,” Mercy added. “You got any gas masks?”
Flynn shook his head. “Back at West 8th yes, but not here. We can rip up the blankets, soak them in water, put them over our faces—”
“It’s our best option. You keep the gun, I’ll use the knife,” Mercy picked up the hunting knife.
Flynn looked at her. “Hey, just say we make it out of here. What then? West 8th Street is a hell of a way from here.
“I have a place over on West 52nd Street we could hold up,” Mercy said.
Flynn looked surprised. “That’s Angel territory, Laurient won’t be happy if a Flyer goes in there. Last time one of our guys strayed onto her turf he didn’t come out, they chopped him up good.”
Mercy raised a hand. “I have an understanding with the Angels, if they find us I’ll vouch for you.”
Flynn shook his head. “Better keep you alive then.”
Mercy looked at her watch, 10 pm. “We’ll do this at first light. Agreed?”
Flynn nodded.
“I’m guessing we’re in the basement?” Mercy asked.
“Yeah, one flight up to the ground floor, place is a mess, broken glass everywhere, fire damage, but once you’re on the ground floor there’ll be plenty of ventilation and daylight. What if we’re split up?”
“Just run, get away. If we’re separated keep it simple, just come to 314 West 52nd Street, if I’ve made it I’ll see you, I’ll come and get you,” Mercy answered.
Flynn was silent, then he nodded. “As good a plan as any.”
“Let’s get some shut eye, we’re going to need it,” Mercy said.
They had a meal of crackers and condensed milk then lay down to rest. It was warm, there was no need for blankets. Flynn blew out most of the candles leaving two alight in the corner.
Mercy lay with her eyes open. Her mind went back to the Fall, to the day before New York City had finally collapsed. Manhattan in lockdown, martial law, quarantine, curfew, looters shot on sight by the military. The army was holed up in Inwood Hill Park behind the north wall.
“The government are trying to keep a lid on the infection by quarantining the city—” they had said at the orphanage. The newspapers had declared ground zero for the outbreak as somewhere on the Lower East Side. The fatality rate was one hundred percent, the infection spread by a bite or scratch.
Mercy recalled the TV and radio public information alerts put out by the government. Those contracting the haemorrhagic fever “turned”, becoming mindless and violent attacking anything with a pulse. The infected exhibited characteristic ectropion or drooping of the lower eyelids, the media had christened them tropes. Human infection was bad enough, the military had been able to control the early trope clusters with sheer firepower. But then phage virus had mutated, making the leap to animals and the military failed. Dogs, cats but especially rats had done for the population of New York City. The rats had lost their natural fear of humans and attacked people in vast numbers, swarming out of the sewers onto the streets, into parks and buildings.
Mercy sighed— that had been the tipping point, nowhere was safe after that. She reflected wondering again why the rats had never attacked her.
Thirty two hours was all it took for a city of 8.5 million people to be plunged into the middle ages. Army units in the city were overwhelmed, themselves succumbing to the infection, it was kill or be killed. She had witnessed horrors that lived with her every day, burned into her memory. Death tainted her. She had killed people— they would have killed her. Killing infected children— that had been the worst.
The only way to kill trope children was a head shot, anywhere else and they would still attack. She had not seen trope children for some time now— maybe the tropes were turning on themselves? What did it matter? The key was to survive, to be invisible, to work alone. Mercy was concerned about taking Flynn with her, she didn’t know him— but he had saved her life.
No one had done that for her— ever.
It felt strange, confusing. She pushed it away, closed her eyes and focused on her breathing, emptying her mind of the dead, their eyes— the pain.
~
Flynn’s watch alarm went off, he groaned and rubbed his eyes. Mercy snapped out of her fugue, Flynn looked rough, hell if he looked like that she must look crap too. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d used a mirror. What was the point?
“I feel like twenty kilos of shit in a ten kilo bag,” Flynn said.
“I feel like all kinds of shit,” Mercy replied.
“Guess that makes us even,” Flynn smiled.
Mercy stared at him, she was not used to humour— and smiling. She looked away, she wasn’t good with people anymore, she’d been alone too long. Alone and strong.
To hell with it all, it doesn’t matter, none of it matters— Mercy told herself.
“Well the almighty has decreed we get through another day, in His infinite wisdom He has laid down this challenge to us today,” Flynn declared, his voice deadpan.
Mercy stretched and checked her wound, it looked clean. She felt stronger, she reached for the antibiotics on the table.
“You’re joking right? About god… I mean you don’t believe in god do you?” Mercy said.
Flynn leaned on his elbow, “My mother used to pray, I respect that. It did nothing for me though. Find it hard to believe in anything except this revolver and my crew, ask me again if we get out of this.”
“You ever see the Preacher?” Mercy said.
“Yeah, once, from a distance. Saw one of his “sacrifices” down near Battery Park— the bastard burned one of
his “wives”. She looked about thirteen… why do people follow him?” Flynn frowned.
“He says god speaks to him? People like to believe in stuff… ever since the Stone Age, people want to believe in stuff,” Mercy said.
“Where ever there’s people there’s trouble,” Flynn added.
“Ain’t that the truth,” Mercy agreed. She tore one of the blankets into strips and soaked them in water. She handed Flynn a length, “Here, wrap this around your mouth and nose, it might buy us a little time against the gas.” They secured the crude gas masks to their faces.
“Right let’s get the show on the road. Are you ready?” Mercy asked shouldering her pack.
Flynn stood up, grabbed his pack and nodded. “Hold on, hand me a few of those magazines. I’ve got some tape.”
Mercy watched him tape magazines to his forearms and shins and allowed him to do the same for her. Anything to protect against a trope bite was welcome.
He finished the job and hesitated. “We’ve got a rule, I mean the Flyers have. If one of us gets bit—”
She understood. “Yeah, I know— mercy kill, I’m good with that too, come on let’s go. I’ll handle the canisters, you cover me.”
Flynn nodded, it had needed saying, no one wanted to turn into one of those things. He went over to the door and punched the code into the keypad, its red light turned green, a soft click came from somewhere within the door frame. He took the keys from the floor and inserted the largest into the keyhole. He held the Colt Python in his left hand, his jaw muscles tensing.
He turned the key.
Chapter 5 Black And Blue
The lock disengaged with a muffled clunk.
Flynn gripped the door handle and listened. The wet cloth around his nose and mouth made it difficult to breathe.
He heard nothing.
Sweat stung his eyes, he blinked. His heart pounded, his mouth was dry. He had bound Mercy’s wound, he hoped the tropes wouldn’t smell the blood. He opened the door a crack. The vault’s weak candlelight wasn’t enough to illuminate the corridor outside.
Flynn turned to Mercy, “Ready?”
Without warning the door was wrenched open. Two tropes threw themselves at Flynn, the Colt Python went off three times. The first trope dropped to the floor, a gaping hole in its chest, it lay writhing its teeth snapping. The second trope went for Flynn’s neck but missed as Flynn staggered back. Mercy flanked the trope and pierced its temple with the knife, she twisted the blade. The familiar feel of splintering bone and the stink of trope blood washed over her.
Move on, move on, move on— her mantra kicked in.
For no reason an old song filled her head and wouldn’t let go. A singer’s disembodied voice and a wall of electric guitars haunted her.
Flynn had used his last three rounds— Mercy’s instinct kicked in, she knelt and finished off the first trope with her knife. She looked at Flynn, “You bit? You OK?”
“I’m OK,” Flynn replied, he looked shaken.
Mercy couldn’t see any bites, it was time to go.
“Follow me, stay close,” Mercy turned and took the lead.
“Stairs on the left,” Flynn said.
With the door open the candle light spilled into the corridor, Mercy saw the door marked “stairs”. The gunshots had been necessary but unfortunate— Bad, bad, bad. She listened at the door then opened it a crack— concrete stairs up and down. A terrible stench wafted from the lower level, a wave of nausea gripped her, she fought the urge to vomit.
“Christ, what the hell’s that smell?” she said.
A crash came from above and light filtered down the stairwell. Rabid screaming filled the air. Flynn put his hand on her shoulder. This was it, she was not going back into the vault. She would meet this head on, she was calm, her breathing quiet.
“Go downstairs,” Mercy whispered to Flynn. Maybe the stench will mask our scent— she thought. She placed the two canisters on the stairs releasing the smoke first, followed by the tear gas. She descended to Flynn shielding her face. The wet cloth around her nose and mouth was working.
The stairwell filled with smoke and tear gas. The draft created by the vault’s ventilation and the shattered door above pulled the toxic mixture upwards. Mercy pushed Flynn back, into the stench below. The screeching abated, she heard footfalls and scrabbling on the steps above. She closed her eyes against the blinding smoke and listened holding her breath.
Time slowed.
The song played in her head again. The next few seconds would see her life hang in the balance, the dance of death, she had been there before and knew the ground. It held no fear for her, only purpose.
The footfalls came through the smoke. More than two— three maybe? Their breathing was laboured, ragged. She hoped their eyes were streaming, blinded. The tropes paused, the stench from below still perceptible through the smoke and gas, they found the open door and rushed through it, their rage palpable. They smelt the blood of the two dead tropes and burst into the vault screaming, their lungs gurgling.
Mercy reached back and pulled Flynn. “Go, go, go—” she whispered. She pushed him up the stairs, he felt his way through the smoke and gas, Mercy followed, eyes closed. The tropes’ screaming covered their footfalls and they made it to the shattered door on the next level. Flynn went through coughing, his eyes streaming. The song in Mercy’s head exploded into a guitar solo. She smiled despite herself, the dance of death was underway, intoxicating. She pushed Flynn across the shop floor. Broken display cases and shattered glass lay everywhere.
Move, move, move—
Flynn staggered across the floor his boots crunching. He knew what to do, this was their chance. There were no tropes visible, they had seconds, a few heartbeats to escape. He made for the nearest open window and climbed out into bright sunshine and fresh air.
Mercy followed, sweat dripping into her eyes. The cold air felt wonderful. Despite their precautions tears streamed from their eyes, she tapped Flynn’s shoulder and ran onto 5th Avenue. She scanned the street twice. The first sweep was good, the second, from bitter experience, was insurance. No tropes, yet. They needed to put as much distance between them and the jewellery store as possible. It was bright, 7 am, they needed cover. She had an idea.
“Run,” she said to Flynn.
They weaved their way between the rusting cars and trucks to Grand Army Plaza then on to the William Tecumseh Sherman Monument. They entered the East Drive entrance to Central Park and found themselves confronted by high grass and weeds. They needed to wash the tear gas residue from their eyes. Mercy remembered The Pond was somewhere close. She made a hard left and pushed her way through the undergrowth. The streets around Central Park were silent. Mercy found it difficult to remember the noise of traffic and human voices. The only sound that greeted them now was birdsong and wind rustling through the trees and grass.
They made it to The Pond. Before breaking cover Mercy scanned the open expanse of water. It was clear, she stepped forwards and knelt at the water’s edge. She immersed her face in the cool water and tore at the cloth strip around her mouth and nose. A metallic taste stuck in the back of her throat, her head was pounding.
Flynn knelt beside her and bathed his face. After a few minutes they sat back and looked at each other. Mercy held a finger to her lips and listened. Flynn had been hunting in the park with his crew, she figured he knew his way around. She leant close and whispered, “We should use the cover in the park to get to the west side of the city, keep your eyes open.”
Flynn nodded, “It’s daylight now, the tropes won’t be out, we’re good— we’ve made it.”
Mercy shook her head, “We’ve not made it. The tropes are behaving strange, expect anything, we’ve only got one knife between the two of us.”
Flynn nodded, “Understood, let’s go, the sooner we get to your safe house the better.”
Mercy turned following The Pond’s southern shore. She took the lead, it made sense, she was the one with the knife and she knew the
way to the safe house. She had half expected Flynn to take over but he seemed happy to defer to her. This pleased and unsettled her, all the men in her life had ever wanted to do was to take control.
They made good progress along the shore and were nearing Centre Drive when a cluster of birds exploded from the trees ten yards away. Mercy froze, her eyes glued to the spot. She could hear Flynn breathing behind her.
Sweep left and right then left again— there. Tropes… one, two, three, four… six.
Six that she could see, the tropes were searching on their left flank. How were they able to withstand the daylight? Mercy focused on the nearest tropes— garbage and rags draped across their heads and bodies. They’re moving as a pack, like in the tower. They’re hunting—
Mercy calculated, there would be others closing in on their position. They needed to get away quick, the tropes could track their scent, their sweat. She looked at Flynn, “Can you swim?”
He nodded, understanding. “Let’s go, now.”
They moved back through the long grass to the southern shore. Thick clumps of reeds provided cover. Mercy turned to Flynn, “Let’s get to the island near the top end.”
Flynn nodded.
They entered the water pushing their way through the reeds into open water. Mercy looked to either side half expecting to see tropes on the shoreline.
Nothing.
They were taking a risk, they would be visible to eyes on the shore but they had the cover of the long grass to hide them. The water would also mask their scent. Mercy was shaken. Tropes in daylight? Using garbage and rags to cover up their skin? This was a level of intelligence and organisation she had never seen before. She had no plan for this, no point of reference.
They were being hunted. This was real. This was happening.
They swam through the centre of The Pond. Mercy tried to remember— did Central Park Zoo have alligators before the Fall? She remembered a bizarre story of a giant white alligator found deep in the city’s sewers. She put the thoughts out of her mind and focused on swimming. The island was up ahead, over grown and surrounded by reeds. They reached the reeds, their feet touching the muddy bottom. They had made it. Mercy wondered if they should wait, but the mantra returned.
The Survival Chronicles (Book 1}: Mercy Kill Page 3
