The stars glittered and clouds scudded across the sky. What would the new day bring? Nature’s sounds and the other, more unnatural sounds came to her from the park; tropes on their nocturnal ventures, screaming, calling. A long mournful howl went up somewhere in the city. Packs of dogs roamed the streets, some dogs resisted the infection, many others succumbed and were ruled by the blood lust.
Tomorrow she would find Flynn.
Chapter 7 Lost and Found
Damp cold wormed into Flynn’s bones.
The tropes had gone after Mercy, the big one leading them. Flynn had run, fallen and run, he remembered slipping into the ditch and banging his head. He woke beside a culvert tunnel as the sun was going down, he pulled aside its wire cover and crawled inside.
Flynn drank from a pool of rainwater and shivered through the night. What had happened to Mercy? He had heard the tropes’ shouts and screams, but then everything was blank. Was Mercy dead? Maybe he should return to the Flyers on West 8th Street? No, he would head for Mercy’s safe house on West 52nd as planned. He had to know if she was alive.
He lay on a ledge above the water. Finally, the oblivion of sleep claimed him. He awoke hours later stiff and cold, hunger gnawing his body. He looked at his watch, 4 am, he had to move, had to get warm. He dropped from the ledge and went to the grate listening.
Wind in the trees, some early bird chatter but nothing else. He removed the grate and crawled out of the culvert. It was good to stand and stretch, he exercised his arms jogging on the spot to warm up. He had no idea where he was; before the Fall it would have taken half an hour to walk from 5th Avenue Station to West 52nd street but now— he set out, he needed a point of reference, a path or road in among the long grass, weeds and trees. After twenty minutes he broke through the waist high grass and smiled, Umpire Rock lay before him. At last, he knew where he was.
All he had to do was reach West Drive avoiding Greyshot Arch Bridge, favoured by tropes. Then he should see the Maine Monument, he’d be out of the park at Columbus Circle. Central Park had always felt safer than the city streets but after the events of the last twenty four hours his mind was changed. Dawn began to touch the skyline. Flynn felt numb and walked on autopilot, his eyes scanning the trees as well as the bushes and undergrowth. He had seen tropes jump from trees before; a Flyer hunting party had been wiped out by such an attack. Hard lessons learned.
Five minutes later he crossed West Drive, in another five he was at the Maine Monument, breathless but warm. The monument was the easternmost marker of Angel territory. Its stonework had been cleared of weeds, on each face of the monument was sprayed the Angels’ tag; a stylised image of an angel holding a bow and arrow.
Flynn swallowed, he’d not been to this part of the city in over six months. The Angels had made it their own and no one crossed them especially not men. The Angels’ leader, Laurient had made it clear that men would not be tolerated in her part of the city. Men had brought violence and subjugated women after the Fall. The Angels had drawn the line at the Maine Monument.
Fair enough, he thought. Flyers had no truck with the Angels, never had, except that one time. Flynn pushed the image of Jack’s dead body from his mind, it had been a genuine mistake. Jack had wandered into Angel territory on a hunting trip. But the Angels didn’t believe in accidents. What the Angels had done to him— the Flyers had wanted to retaliate but that was back when they had been weak with fewer members. So no revenge was taken— maybe it’d be a different story now.
Flynn considered his situation, he had to be careful. He wanted to meet up with Mercy, no, he needed to meet up with Mercy, she had to be alive, she made him feel alive. He skirted around Columbus Circle weaving through the rusting yellow cabs, he kept his eyes peeled for police cruisers, most had been picked clean of weapons but it paid to check. Broadway extended off to his left, then 8th Avenue. The Lonely Globe sculpture stared at him from across the street. He stopped to listen— silence. If he were the Angels he would have a watch on this place, he looked around, glancing up at the Museum of Arts and Design, he felt small, insignificant. This was the perfect place for an ambush, he didn’t even have a weapon.
He pushed on keeping to the centre of the street. Tropes could jump from the shadows if they were hungry enough, risking the daylight. After what he had seen the day before with tropes wearing garbage and rags to protect their skin he took nothing for granted. 8th Avenue closed around him as he entered its shade, cars were pressed together, an old police roadblock lay ahead. The city had been chaos in the last days, people running, looting, dying. He remembered the shots, the screams, the blood, he remembered hiding in his basement in Jersey for three days. Then the food had run out.
West 57th and 56th passed uneventfully. On the corner of West 55th and 8th Avenue he spotted the Angels’ tag again, this time sprayed in gold paint on the road surface. He was sweating and breathless, he needed water. He spotted a liquor store. He looked around then, crouching low, ran across the street his feet crunching on broken glass. A dog barked in the distance and others joined in.
Keep moving—
Flynn peered through the store’s grimy window. He went to the doorway and listened. Nothing. He turned the handle opening the door a crack, it creaked, he gritted his teeth. He waited, then opened the door stepping back ready to run.
Nothing.
No smell, a good sign, tropes stank. He bent down and picked a crushed can off the sidewalk, he threw it into the back of the store.
Nothing.
He entered the shop, the place was a mess, broken glass everywhere, empty shelves. He looked behind the counter, more bare shelves, the till was open and empty. Old blood stains covered the wall, a single shoe stared up at him from the tiled floor. He turned and made his way to the back avoiding the broken glass.
A closed door marked Staff lay in the rear. He picked up a broken shelf bracket, not much of a weapon but better than nothing, went to the door and listened.
Nothing.
He opened the door ready to run, darkness lay beyond, he stood aside to let the muted light in. It was a small office with a couple of doors off to the side, one a kitchen the other a toilet. He breathed, no tropes. He wedged the door open and entered the office; desk, computer, useless rubbish from a dead age. He went into the kitchen and turned on the tap, no water. Shelves empty, an old kettle on the floor. He walked over to the toilet and pulled open the door; bloody hand prints on the wall and another shoe. The toilet cistern was intact, he leant forwards and lifted the lid.
Water.
Enough to tide him over, he retrieved a plastic mug from the kitchen and drank from the cistern. He felt his head clearing, he scooped the remaining water into a plastic container from the kitchen. As long as he had water he could put up with the hunger.
He needed a weapon and a torch for the night. He looked at his watch, noon, still early and he was almost at West 52nd Street, maybe Mercy was there, waiting for him. He went back onto the street and looked around. No barking, no birdsong, just him and the buildings.
Flynn stepped out onto the street and started walking. Impatience took over and he ran, West 54th and West 53rd came and went, then he was standing on the corner of West 52nd Street. The city was full of ghosts, Flynn imagined eyes on him from every building and car. Animals had long ago devoured the bodies on the streets, scattered human bones were testament to that. Those that had died indoors or in cars and trucks were still there, skinnies; mummified human husks almost recognisable in their check shirts, dresses and suits.
This section of West 52nd Street was full of cars and their skinnies staring out of vehicle windows with the same fixed look. Flynn stopped to catch his breath. A fire truck lay on its side in the road, he went to explore it, circling warily. His eyes lit up when he saw an axe strapped at the back of the cabin. Two skinnies in firemen’s clothing stared back at him all teeth and bone.
Flynn climbed onto the fire truck and grabbed the door handle, it clicked, he pulled the door op
en. Stale air rose out of the cab and he recoiled. He filled his lungs with fresh air, steeled himself and climbed in. There was room enough to manoeuvre, the cabin having capacity for six crew. He pulled the axe free from the back panel, it felt good in his hands, he looked around and found a first aid bag.
The city takes and the city provides—
He pushed his loot out the open door then hauled himself up. He sat on the truck in the early afternoon light listening to the dead city. He imagined its heart beating slowly just beneath the surface. Its streets and avenues were the arteries and veins, Central Park its lungs, the towers its bones, its heart the monuments and its dreaming head the spires connecting to the sky. He wished the city would come back to life as it had been, life was a miracle, death was nothing.
Flynn’s dream burst, reality came crashing down on him. He stood on the fire truck and looked up and down the street. The cars thinned out further on. Mercy’s safe house was 314 West 52nd Street, he climbed down from the truck and set off.
His thoughts turned to Mercy, he wanted to call out to her, let her know he was near, that would be stupid. He thought of what she had told him, he could get the measure of people pretty quick, he had learned that from his mother. He saw Mercy was strong and a loner, she hadn’t told him everything, he respected that. He had not told her everything, he hadn’t told her he had killed people after the Fall. He hadn’t told her he had killed for food and weapons and had killed to be a member of the Flyers. It was kill or be killed, belong or die.
Except Mercy had chosen not to belong to any group. She could have joined the Angels, they would have taken her in. She had an “understanding” with them. What did that mean? How did a loner survive in a city of the dead? You needed someone to have your back in order to sleep and without others pretty soon fear would grind you down and drive you crazy. Flynn wondered at this girl he had found and how she was still alive two years after the Fall. He needed to know more about her, he wanted to be with her. He was thinking about her more than his own crew.
Flynn slowed down and moved from the centre of the road to the pavement, he looked at the numbers on the buildings, 254, 256. He was close. How would she let him know that she saw him? A dog barked, much nearer than before, somewhere up ahead, down a side alley. He froze, dogs were bad news. Those that were infected came out at night leaving the day to the packs of feral dogs, wild and hungry.
Flynn scanned ahead and saw a mail delivery truck parked outside a post office, he looked in, a body lay slumped over the wheel. The barking was louder. He opened the passenger door and jumped in beside the skinny, locking the door behind him. The windscreen was thick with grime, a blessing and a hindrance. He took a few deep breaths clutching the fire axe to his chest and waited.
A lumbering shape appeared from an alley ahead. Flynn rubbed the windscreen to get a better view. It helped a little but most of the grime was on the outside. A shuffling mound of plastic bags and rags moved towards him surrounded by a pack of wild dogs. He squinted and saw the trope beneath the garbage, it had protected its skin from the sun just like the tropes in Central Park. The dogs were biting and snapping at its heels.
Why were the tropes coming out in daylight? This one was alone, separated from its pod. Normally dogs wouldn’t dare attack a trope, unless it was wounded or weak. Flynn watched it stagger up the street towards the post office, it hesitated, then turned to face its tormentors. The trope screamed, Flynn had heard that scream before, a call for help, usually answered by other tropes, but not this time. The trope rushed forwards and grabbed the nearest dog by the muzzle. With a scream it ripped the dog’s jaw off then used its dead body to club the other dogs.
Flynn looked on transfixed. He had seen some terrible things since the Fall but this was way up there. The trope was making headway with the pack and managed to beat them back across the street. Then it stopped and straightened up. Flynn struggled to see what was happening, he opened the door of the mail truck and peered out. The trope stood still for a few seconds then fell to the ground, two arrows protruding from its throat.
Flynn cursed.
Angels. It had to be their handiwork. He looked around and saw nothing, the dogs pounced on the trope’s corpse and began to feed. Flynn thought, should he run or hide? Perhaps it was a single Angel hunter, perhaps she was focused on the trope and had not seen him. He closed the door and engaged the lock.
Seconds dragged into minutes, Flynn peered through the windscreen. The dogs were still feasting. A high pitched yelp broke the air, followed by another, Flynn could make out the dogs running away. He heard breaking glass then the trope’s body burst into flames.
More glass breaking, this time on the truck’s bonnet, flames burst across the windscreen. The passenger window shattered, flying glass cut his arm, he winced and threw himself into the back of the truck. Another high velocity round penetrated the side of the truck exiting through the floor.
They had guns. If the truck had any fuel left he was finished. He had to make a break for it, he scrabbled at the back of the truck and found the door release. A bullet punched a hole in the panel inches from his hand, he threw the door open and jumped out falling to the ground.
Another shot rang out, the round hit the tarmac at his side. He made a decision.
“Don’t shoot, don’t shoot. I’m unarmed…” Flynn shouted. Flames enveloped the truck, the heat was intense, he turned away.
“Move away from the truck, no sudden moves,” a woman’s voice rang out.
Flynn backed away from the truck hands above his head. The smoke from the fire was thick and toxic, burning his lungs. He coughed and fell to the ground his right arm bleeding. An explosion ripped through the air, the truck lifted off the road, pieces of metal flying through the air. Flynn felt a blow to his back followed by intense heat, he screamed and rolled on the ground his jacket on fire. He managed to smother the flames and lay panting his eyes streaming.
He looked back towards the truck, a figure came towards him through the smoke. He froze, they held all the cards, his life was in the balance.
The figure stopped a few feet away.
“You’re wearing Flyer colours— give me a reason why I shouldn’t kill you right now,” the figure said.
“Yeah, I’m with the Flyers but Mercy Dawes told me to meet her here. She said she has an understanding with the Angels and she would vouch for me,” Flynn lay still, he waited for his life to be taken, these would be his last words. At least he had said Mercy’s name— he would die with her name on his lips.
A pause.
“Mercy Dawes?” the figure repeated.
Flynn blinked. He breathed in the foul smoke, fought back a cough and answered, “Yes, Mercy asked me to meet her here at her safe house, she escaped the trope attack the other night in the tower, they’re behaving differently— more intelligent, hunting in packs, coming out in daylight—” his words ran dry, his mind blank. He was not afraid, he was angry.
Flynn’s anger spilled over. “You know what? I’ve had enough of this shit. I’ve been hunted by tropes this last twenty four hours, I’ve tried to survive like we all do, I’ve not harmed you in any way. I’m just a guy trying to get by— so kill me now or give me a break.” Flynn pushed himself up to a kneeling position, arms behind his head. He looked at the figure standing over him. He recognised Laurient’s second in command, Tawny; six foot tall, athletic build, shoulder length blonde hair, intelligent green eyes and that tattoo, the Stars and Stripes on her right arm.
A pause.
“You’ve broken our rules, you’ve breached our laws. You’re in Angel territory, I have the authority to execute you. I’m sorely tempted, you are an affront to what the sisterhood stands for. You men are—” words failed her, her voice shook with anger.
Flynn took the offensive. “I’m still alive. You’ve not killed me, the earth still turns. I’m not lying, Mercy Dawes will vouch for me.”
Silence.
He continued. “Look the tropes
are changing, they’re coming out by day. Mercy escaped from them in the tower. I helped save her life, she asked me to come here, she said she had an understanding with you guys. She said she would vouch for me—” his voice broke, he shrugged.
A pause.
“Agreed. Stand up. Hold your hands out. Know that I am covered by my sisters, if you resist you will be shot— understand?” Tawny declared, her voice flat.
“Got it,” Flynn nodded, he did as she ordered. Tawny bound his hands with cable ties, another girl put a hood over his head. “Let’s go,” Tawny said. Footsteps gathered around him.
Relief washed through Flynn. Mercy’s understanding with the Angels had saved his life.
Chapter 8 Night Terrors
Mercy closed her eyes.
It was uncomfortable in the plastic angel’s wings. The temperature dropped soon after the sun had gone down. She emptied her mind and focused on her breathing. She tried meditation sometimes, it always failed but still she tried. The counsellor who had taught her in the orphanage had promised it would combat stress. Fat chance, but still— maybe it would help her remember her parents. Maybe somewhere, locked away in her memory was an image of her mother and father. It was fantasy and foolish, but she liked to think her mother was out there, that once she had been loved.
Mercy had made up stories about her mother; she had been too young to look after a baby, she had been forced to give Mercy up. She had put her mother on a pedestal, which was dangerous, life did not work that way. Mercy blinked, what did it matter? It’s not like she’d ever find out the truth, not now, not ever.
Mercy did her second favourite thing, she closed her eyes and tried to remember Amy and Carrie’s faces, back in the orphanage. They’d been like sisters, the only family Mercy had known. They covered for each other, took the blame for each other, took beatings for each other. They had nothing but they were family, they faced each new day together. She missed them, they’d had some good times—
The Survival Chronicles (Book 1}: Mercy Kill Page 5
