The Survival Chronicles (Book 1}: Mercy Kill

by Nally, Fergal F.

  Like the time Amy had prised the dorm window open, they had stuffed clothes and pillows under the sheets and snuck out of the orphanage running wild on the streets for the night. Laughing, looking in shop windows, dancing in the rain, hiding from police cars. They had got as far as the Flatiron before turning back. Carrie had fallen and cut her knee, which had brought questions the following day.

  A tearing sound interrupted Mercy’s thoughts. Her eyes snapped open, she gripped the hammer, sat up and listened. The sound came again from the edge of the fairground. Then the groaning started, her heart sank; a trope, or tropes. Why were they here? How had they found her? Mercy’s mind raced, the overgrowth would slow them for a bit, but they would come. She was in a good hiding place, up high but it was only a matter of time before they found her, and what then? She would be stuck, trapped.

  Mercy knew what she had to do. She climbed out of the angel wings onto the top of the helter skelter. She looked over to the edge of the fairground and saw movement. She waited, scouring the area with her eyes, just one trope. It seemed to be caught on a railing, part of the outer fence.

  Moonlight flickered through the clouds, the trope was covered in plastic sheeting like some of the others she had seen. The plastic had caught in the fence, the trope was trying to pull itself free. A random scout? It would bring others. Mercy considered her options, finally she reached down and hefted the pliers in her hand. She took aim and threw the pliers long and high across the fairground. It landed on the opposite side clattering against one of the rides. The trope swung its head towards the noise and growled, its agitation increased. It tore itself free and moved off to the other side of the fairground.

  She had bought some time. Mercy gathered her things putting them in the pack and climbed down the helter skelter’s slide. The night was chill, her breath misted the air, everything was monochrome in the starlight. She listened, debating which way to go, the trope thrashed across the fairground. She turned and negotiated her way through and over the tangled mass of ivy. Five minutes later she was back out in Central Park among the trees and the sounds of the night.

  Keep moving, get away from the fairground—

  She needed to use the torch but that would be suicide, no, she’d be like the animals, breathe, listen, be one with the night and the forest. She would get through this, she had been in worst scrapes before. Holding the hammer in one hand she walked on through the night, the wet grass brushing against her legs and waist.

  Ten minutes later her feet struck tarmac. She looked around, New York City by day was still New York City but by night it was unrecognisable, stripped of its electric lights. She looked up and down the road under the star light.

  It has to be Centre Drive— it has to be.

  It would take her to West Drive and then to West 59th Street, then she’d know where she was. She’d be able to make it to the safe house before daybreak.

  Mercy followed the tarmac keeping to the middle of the road. She wanted to stay hidden in the long grass along the side but the going was tougher. Her eyes darted left and right, she turned to see if she was being followed. Nothing.

  Five minutes later she froze. The stench of death drifted across the road, she saw movement on her right. Something was there, something big. She waited, resisting the urge to run. A loud roar tore through the darkness, she had heard that sound before— a bear. It was feeding, she dreaded to think what it had captured. Flynn’s face flashed before her, she pushed the image away and focused.

  The bear was busy with its kill. Mercy hoped she was downwind, she continued on, her muscles tense, her senses alert. In five minutes the stench had passed, the road swung to the right. She took the turn and pressed on, the urge to run strong, but a fall could spell disaster. She kept her pace steady, eyes flicking from side to side.

  She came to two fallen trees and an abandoned car. She climbed over the trees giving the car a wide berth, animals sometimes used the shelter provided by abandoned vehicles. The road stretched ahead, she almost missed the left turn. The undergrowth had practically reclaimed the exit road. It was covered by weeds and long grass, tree roots cracked its surface.

  But she’d found it. This was West Drive, she was almost out of the park, her heart raced. She took the turn and picked her way down the drive. She looked at her watch, 3 am. A branch snapped on her left, a deer ran across the drive, another deer followed a second later. Mercy ran as fast as she could along the rest of the drive. The hairs on her neck stood up, a feeling she had learned to trust, she didn’t look back.

  Mercy was taking a risk running in the dark, at least the drive was tarmac, uneven and broken in places but still tarmac. Shapes loomed ahead, she crossed the park boundary onto West 59th Street and kept going, past abandoned carriages, crossing into 7th Avenue, she’d go a couple of blocks and see if anything followed her. She broke her own rule and left the centre of the road moving to the sidewalk.

  The sidewalk was mostly clear of cars, progress was quicker but riskier; tropes favoured doorways, alleys and buildings. Adrenaline kept her moving, her feet found the way around and over obstacles. Finally she stopped, breathless, just short of 57th Street subway station. She had her bearings, Hell’s Kitchen lay off to her right, she could be at West 52nd Street and the safe house in less than thirty minutes.

  Mercy knelt in a shop doorway, Carnegie Hall loomed over her on the other side of the avenue, she glanced behind, no sign of pursuit. She reached into her pack for a drink and slumped to the ground exhausted. She brought the soda bottle to her lips and took two long gulps then wiped the sweat from her brow. Her eyes felt heavy, she blinked, closing them.

  Just a few seconds—

  Mercy woke, cold and shivering in the doorway.

  Christ, how long have I been here?

  She looked at her watch, 4:30 am, dawn was an hour away.

  Stupid, stupid, stupid— she shouldn’t have sat down. This was how mistakes were made, how the tropes won, they didn’t need sleep. She couldn’t stay in the doorway, she peered around the corner and listened.

  Nothing.

  Mercy could make out cars and trucks on the road and the dark bulk of buildings beyond. She stepped out of the doorway hammer in hand and moved towards the subway station. Something moved on her left emerging from under a car, it ran across her feet, she swore and fell onto her back. The pack broke her fall, the soda bottles shattered fracturing the still night.

  Shit—

  Mercy dropped to her knees and listened. She peered over at Carnegie Hall and saw movement.

  Shit, shit, shit—

  Dragging, shuffling, movement. There had to be a pod of tropes under the front awning. She risked a second look, a group of at least ten tropes were emerging from the hall’s front entrance, heading her way. She glanced around, one, maybe two she could handle, but ten? Once they saw her the blood rage would kick in and they’d attack.

  Think, think, think—

  Her eyes went to the subway entrance.

  No—

  Mercy looked around again, calculating, considering the options. There were none except— she had sworn she would never go underground again, not after what had happened last time, her hand went to the old scar on her left shoulder. She heard shuffling feet approaching, she knew what she had to do. The tropes would not follow her underground, even they did not venture there thanks to the US military.

  Whose stupid idea had it been to weaponise captured tropes, turning them into freaks, controlling them? Use tropes to fight tropes, fight fire with fire, the army had said— yeah right, like that would work. That had been real desperation, real stupidity.

  Mercy gripped the hammer and looked across the street. They’d see her, she had four, maybe five seconds to make the subway entrance. What if it was flooded? She had to take the risk. She took a deep breath and ran. They were closer than she’d thought but she had surprise on her side. They spotted her and let out a collective cry, they came for her, blood lust rising in their vein
s.

  Mercy’s eyes were locked on the subway entrance.

  Please… no locks… no water… or…

  She was there, the entrance yawned beneath her. No flood, no locked gates. Mercy ran down the steps into the dark. The tropes tore at the air inches from her hair but stopped short at the bottom of the stairs hissing and screaming at the shadows. Fear kept them at bay.

  Mercy looked back seeing the tropes, backlit at the foot of the steps, as if an invisible wall held them there, like magic. Except she knew it wasn’t magic that held them. She shuddered and turned away approaching the barely discernible escalators.

  Shit… never again, never ever again— she had told herself over and over. And yet here she was again. Well, shit happens, she thought. She climbed over the ticket barrier and glanced back once more. The tropes were still hovering on the stairs, waiting to see if she’d return. They had given her no choice. She cursed, she’d left her pack and the torch on the street. Mercy looked down into the darkness and closed her eyes, they were no use to her now. Her hands and fingertips were her eyes now, her ears her radar.

  It was a game, she told herself, like the video games she used to play back at the orphanage, a first person shooter, except she didn’t have any weapons or ammunition. She had to make it to the next save point and only had her fists and a hammer to protect herself. She smiled despite herself, she didn’t like the odds, extreme hard core mode, and she only ever played easy mode as she was more interested in the journey, being part of the story.

  Well now she was the story and this journey could be her last. There was only one way and that was forward. She remembered the last time; being caught out at street level after dark, tropes corralling her like today and the descent into this hell. Fractured images spun through her head, the weaponised freaks with their eye visors and exoskeleton suits and above it all the stink of the bodies and the meat, human meat.

  Mercy shuddered, that had been a nice touch by the military, eye visors not full face visors, giving the freaks the ability to feed. And feed they did, she had seen their meat lockers, humans, surface tropes, dogs, animals, even seen a horse for Christ’s sake. The freaks were a whole new level of threat; weaponised, semi-intelligent tropes. She was in serious trouble, the scar on her left shoulder ached bringing back the memory of the freak bite.

  You escaped the last time, come on you can do it again—

  The lie tasted bitter as she exhaled. The best lies were served cold with a large dose of pain and she had just stepped into a whole world of pain. Mercy’s feet reached the bottom of the escalator, she shut down her internal monologue and stood, eyes closed, listening, breathing. Water dripped, a breeze brushed her cheeks, the smell of decay hung in the air— nothing stirred.

  Nothing was good, she could work with nothing. Sound travelled underground, she wondered if the commotion with the surface tropes had caused ripples in this subterranean world. She moved sideways arms outstretched, she needed to find the wall; the wall and the floor were the only constants in the dark.

  A cool tiled surface greeted her left hand.

  Keep moving, don’t stop. Stop and you die—

  Mercy pushed herself onwards feeling the way, her fingers brushed over a board, a sign, then more tiles. Her feet crunched on broken glass and slid on other slick areas. Glass was her worry, always the glass. Cities built of glass, steel and concrete, so much glass.

  She reminded herself it worked both ways, she would hear something approaching her. A small comfort, she did not want to hear anything. Her right hand brushed against a hard surface emerging from the tiled wall. She placed her forehead on it and felt further, a kiosk of some description. She imagined newspapers, bottled water and candy, but she felt only hard walls, then a shelf and a voice grill. A station master’s room maybe, there should be a door.

  Mercy worked her way around the kiosk feeling every inch, her fingers found a handle, she took a breath, turned it and pulled. The door opened out with a grating sound. She cursed inwardly and felt for any obstacles in the doorway, finding none she stepped in and shut the door behind her.

  The air in the kiosk was stale, dusty, she fought back a cough, tears streaming from her eyes. She could not cough, she must not cough. She went on all fours and felt her way around the interior. Her hands encountered an overturned stool and a set of drawers, paperwork lay strewn on the floor, she came to the corner and reached into it. Her hand connected with a corpse. She recoiled, it was mummified, a husk, she had been around enough skinnies not to feel disgust, just sadness.

  Mercy took her hand away and froze.

  What was that?

  A noise from the corridor outside— tapping.

  She pressed herself up under the shelf, her back against the drawers and waited. Her heart thumped, not from fear but from exhilaration.

  What was it? Fight, flight, or freeze?

  Mercy waited, the hammer in her right hand. The tapping continued and came nearer. A weak light flickered through the kiosk window above her head throwing dancing shapes on the opposite wall. She saw train timetables and a calendar showing a picture of New England trees in the fall. In the corner she made out the body in a station master’s uniform. The light disappeared from the back wall. The tapping stopped.

  Mercy waited, her breathing calm and measured. It had to be a freak, who else would be down here? She heard shuffling outside the kiosk, the tapping started again. It was approaching the door, Mercy tensed preparing to defend herself. She listened and heard fingers feeling the door much as she had done minutes before.

  Damn, should've thrown the latch… stupid. That’s all it takes, one stupid mistake and game over—

  The handle turned, the door opened, dim light reached into the kiosk. Mercy bent forwards, straining to see. A small figure wearing a head torch, a horrible stench invaded the kiosk, Mercy recoiled.

  “Hello there? Is it working?” a boy’s voice asked.

  Mercy stared, speechless.

  “Is my torch working? I can never tell, the last person who passed through here told me it was working,” he said. “I heard you on the escalator, are things still just as bad up top?” A pause, “My name’s Vincent, you can call me Vince, I live down here. I’m blind but it doesn’t matter, not to me, not down here…”

  Mercy shifted her weight, her right leg was about to cramp. “Hello there… Vince,” she said. “I’m Mercy, yes your light’s working but it’s weak, the tropes chased me down here from the surface. Things are bad up there, what about down here? The freaks? How can you live here? They eat—” she could not bring herself to finish the sentence.

  “They eat people, they eat anything that lives. But they are blind too, once you know how, you can hide from them. I found out how to fool them, now it’s safer for me to live down here than outside,” Vince replied.

  Mercy considered the boy’s words. “So how’d you do it? How do you fool the freaks?” She edged forwards trying to see the boy’s face, she saw a dirty check shirt and jeans.

  “Camouflage,” Vince said. He held up a small tin, his other hand held a stick, the source of the tapping. Mercy tried to reconcile what he was telling her with her own knowledge of the freaks and their subway domain.

  Vince seemed untroubled. “They’ve been down here a long time now, the army lost control of them ages ago, sometimes their armour, their joints leak. Some of them seize up and can’t move, I’m able to collect the leakage, the chemical that runs their metal limbs. It stinks, I think it’s mixed with their own blood, their own fluids. Once I’ve got enough I slap it on my skin and clothes… and I become one of them, invisible. I can walk right through their areas. I have my own place as well—”

  Mercy listened to the boy, she had a better view of him, he looked nine or ten and was wearing dark goggles. This was surreal, how long had he been down here? Was he alone? Was he telling the truth? Then she remembered her own tactic of using lion scatt to mask her own scent from the surface tropes. She sighed and rel
axed.

  “So Vince, here you are, here I am. What do you suggest?” Mercy said.

  Vince’s head torch flickered briefly and died.

  Somewhere deep in the subway Mercy heard a long plaintive howl. The hairs on the back of her neck rose. Seconds later the howl was answered by others, closer this time.

  “They can smell you, you’re fresh meat,” Vince said matter of factly. “Here, I think you need this.”

  Mercy reached out in the dark and took the tin.

  Chapter 9 Wall Of Tears

  Flynn’s head was pounding, his body ached.

  He opened his eyes and saw the iron bars and the pools of water on the concrete floor. He rolled over, a stabbing pain exploded in his side, he remembered one of the Angels hitting him when he had pulled away from their relentless pushing and shoving. He lifted his shirt and saw the bruised ribs, he pressed the area and winced. He had had broken ribs before, this time he had gotten away with bruises.

  “My sisters are going to kill you mister,” a young voice reached through the bars.

  Flynn jumped, startled. A child’s dirt smeared face looked at him. A girl, twelve or thirteen years old, returned his gaze with disturbing intensity.

  “We kill all your kind, because if we don’t kill you, you’ll always kill us,” the girl stressed the word always. She stopped and crouched down looking at Flynn. “You smell, you stink worse than the dead. Don’t worry though ‘cos it’s my turn tonight. Tawny says I’ll get to kill you, she’s gone to check with Laurient.”

  Flynn took in the girl’s words, his mind reeling.

  What the hell?

  The events of the previous day returned to him. He was in Angel territory, he had willingly crossed into Hell’s Kitchen. He would face the consequences, his shoulders slumped, he sighed.

  “What’s your name?” he asked.

  The girl looked at him her eyes curious, she blinked then shrugged. “I’m Rose, I’m thirteen, Tawny saved me when I was eleven. She saved me from the tropes, she couldn’t save my parents, they were already dead, killed by men, your kind. I was alone and our car was surrounded by the infected, Tawny killed them all. I saw it, she came for me, she’s my sister now. We’re all sisters here, we are strong, you are weak. We will win in the end, we’ll take the city from the infected, from you, from the Preacher.”