The Survival Chronicles (Book 1}: Mercy Kill

by Nally, Fergal F.

  Vince smiled. “Cool, I’ll do my best with these beauties.”

  Mercy readied her gear for the trip to Laurient’s base at the Manhattan Cruise Terminal; she mused, one of Laurient’s crew would probably find her first. She said goodbye to Vince relieved he was safe and that she was on her own again. She left the second floor apartment locking the door behind her and exited the building by the rear fire escape.

  The sun was up, Hell’s Kitchen was quiet. She half closed her eyes and for a moment the street looked almost as it had before the Fall. Her imagination filled in the missing people and traffic. The sounds and smells of a living, breathing city filled her memory.

  A distant bark shattered her dream; wild dogs on the prowl. Sound travelled far in the city’s canyons of concrete and steel. She moved along West 52nd Street the Glock in her right hand, a hunting knife in her left. The intersection with 9th Avenue passed without incident. She came to the junction of West 52nd and 10th Avenue. She could go straight on, to De Witt Clinton Park, or she could turn left and continue on West 51st Street to the Manhattan Cruise Terminal.

  Mercy paused looking up and down 10th Avenue, a fire truck lay overturned at the intersection. Further up on the right a garbage truck was positioned across the avenue blocking her view, a barricade had been constructed either side of the truck using cars and dumpsters. The city was littered with similar barricades; the last ditch efforts of citizens to keep the tropes out.

  She looked to her left down 10th Avenue and saw a flag attached to a street light — Angel colours, the message clear. Someone obviously had an artistic talent, the flag was an improvement on the original crude angel motif Laurient had first used. This flag was black with three red winged figures facing east, south and west. The northern position was occupied by a clenched fist.

  But it wasn’t the flag that held Mercy’s attention. It was the man’s body hanging from the street light. Her blood froze — was she was too late? Her stomach twisted, her legs buckled, she reached to the wall to steady herself.

  Flynn —

  “Relax bitch, your pretty boy’s still alive, you’re just in time Mercy Dawes,” a girl’s voice said from behind. A gun pressed on her neck. “Drop your weapons, nice and easy.”

  Mixed emotions washed through Mercy. Relief at hearing Flynn was alive and annoyance at allowing herself to be caught off guard. She did as she was told and dropped the Glock and the knife, tropes were the least of her worries now.

  “Atta girl,” the voice said. “Jazzy, grab the hardware.”

  Mercy saw young hands taking the Glock and the knife from the ground.

  “Come on, there’s no need for this. I’ve got Laurient’s permission to be here, it’s all good sister,” Mercy said, she started to turn around.

  “Ah… ah, stop right there Mercy Dawes, no sudden moves, hands behind your back, do it slow, you know the drill,” the voice said.

  Mercy shrugged. “If you say so.” She extended her arms back, hand in hand. A cable tie closed around her wrists.

  “Hey, easy, easy, that’s tight sister,” Mercy protested.

  Footsteps behind, the gun pressure removed from her neck. A hand landed on her shoulder spinning her around. A familiar face looked at her. A tall blond girl chewing gum, hair cropped short, vivid green eyes, an ugly scar across her neck and old burn marks on her hands. Six other heavily armed girls stood around their eyes on the street and buildings.

  “Santa Fe, should have known it was you with that drawl. How you been keepin’?” Mercy asked.

  “Santa to you. I been better. Lotta trope activity these last couple of weeks but guess you already know that. Your fella— what’s his name?”

  Mercy pulled a face. “Flynn… and he’s not my fella…”

  “Well he seems to think you are, said you’d vouch for him. Anyhow, he gave a good account of himself up on the roof. We got a new trophy on the Wall of Tears courtesy of your boyfriend. One of the Preacher’s men, not good enough to beat your Mr Flynn.” Santa Fe spat her gum out. “I’d love to chat but Laurient wants to speak to you.” She looked at her watch. “Besides, your boy’s got about sixty minutes to spare before he gets the chop.”

  Mercy went pale. She’d cut it close.

  Santa Fe reached for the walkie talkie on her belt. “We got Dawes, bringing her in now. Tell Laurient. Over.”

  “Copy that,” a disembodied voice answered. “Over and out.”

  Santa Fe shoved Mercy hard. “Think we’d better hurry, want to get there in time to see lover boy don’t we?”

  They continued along West 52nd Street towards De Witt Clinton Park. The buildings in the block on the left showed recent fire damage.

  “What happened there?” Mercy asked.

  Santa Fe spat on the ground. “Bloody tropes is what happened. Bastards getting harder if you ask me. They used to respect the daylight, things were simple, day ours, night theirs. But now, I dunno, maybe they’ve ran out of food, maybe the virus is mutating, but now they’re active day and night. So we burned their asses right outta there,” Santa Fe’s voice was loud, defiant.

  “Yeah, the ones that chased us through Central Park were using garbage and old clothes to protect themselves from the sun,” Mercy said.

  Santa Fe patted her AR-15 rifle. “The only thing tropes understand is lead, and the Angels got plenty of lead, it’s all gonna kick off pretty soon, whaddaya say sisters?”

  Santa Fe’s crew responded with resounding shouts of approval.

  “These are my sisters, they’d die for me and me for them, that’s how it works, Dawes. Do you understand that? We’re family… you got no sisters, you got no family. Laurient offered you sanctuary, you could’ve joined, why didn’t you? Too good for us… eh?” Santa Fe’s voice was mocking.

  “Hey Santa, just relax, that’s overkill and you know it,” Mercy responded, her eyes on De Witt Clinton Park in the distance. Santa Fe was losing her concentration, she was slipping into bravado, confident in the strength of her crew.

  Go easy Santa Fe, walk the streets in silence, the hungry are always watching and waiting— the words entered Mercy’s mind.

  Mercy worked on the cable tie. She had flexed her muscles when it had been applied allowing a slight give when she relaxed her wrists. She was alert, they were still a block from the Cruise Terminal. A lot could happen in a block, her instincts were sharp; this street felt different.

  Santa Fe shoved her. “Go on tell us, tell me and my crew why the great Mercy Dawes didn’t join the Angels then— get it off your chest.”

  This was turning ugly. Mercy didn’t know why. She had to respond to Santa Fe’s taunts, she was making too much noise and this block had trope written all over it. “OK, OK Santa you know me. We know each other, you were there for Christ’s sake. I saved Laurient’s life, I got lucky that’s all. I was in the right place at the right time with the right weapon. It’s a game, you know it. I shot that trope with a hunting rifle with a four power scope at 250 yards— end of. Yeah, if I’d missed Laurient would’ve been trope food— but I didn’t miss.” Mercy paused for effect, the Angels were tribal and in some ways juvenile in their behaviour, tales of strength and bravado went down well.

  Mercy continued, “But you also saved her life that day, remember? You dragged her out of the trope ambush, you were the one that got her home. So it was my lucky shot and your fast action that saved the day.”

  A pause.

  Then, “Yeah your aim was good. Yeah, you and me, we got Laurient outta there,” Santa Fe acknowledged, her voice even.

  Mercy stumbled, she staggered against a glass shop front just managing to keep upright. She leaned against the window breathing hard. A muffled scream came from within the shop, she felt a heavy impact against the window. A trope’s face pressed up against the glass, grotesque and squashed, its eyes black, its teeth snapping, its tongue licked the window. Mercy jerked away her wrists twisting against the cable tie. Hands grabbed her pulling her from the window.

>   “Shit, thought we’d cleared these buildings. Unfinished business here Jazzy, make a mental note,” Santa Fe’s voice sounded less confident than before.

  Mercy looked at the window and watched as the trope squirmed against the glass, its wasted body trembling with rage. This was the face of the virus, the death of civilization. This was the fear, despite all the guns and bravado.

  “Come on let’s get outta here,” Santa Fe ordered.

  “Uh, you might want to check out the park ahead,” Mercy said.

  “Park’s clear Dawes, we already checked it,” Santa Fe retorted.

  “Doesn’t look clear to me—” Mercy replied. “Look at the cars around the park, where are all the skinnies then? It’s been the same up and down the street, or haven’t you noticed?”

  “Yeah we noticed, what to you take us for? Amateurs? The skinnies have been disappearing for some time now, god knows where they’ve gone,” Santa Fe said.

  “Don’t you think you should find out? Seems kind of important, the dead disappearing—” Mercy threw back.

  “Shut up and keep walking, I’ve had enough of you talking,” Santa Fe sounded annoyed.

  “Hey Santa, think you need to take a look —” one of the scouts held out a pair of binoculars. “See the entrance to the park? Just behind them weeds, three or four skinnies just standing there, in a huddle. They weren’t there earlier—”

  Santa Fe took the binoculars and looked towards the park. “Shit, Dawes. You’re right, you psychic or something?” Santa Fe turned to her crew, “Heads up everyone we got trouble in the park, we’ll cut down 11th Avenue to West 51st Street, keep it tight and remember eyes up too. Remember what happened to Nikki’s crew?”

  The others nodded, some looked away at the mention of the name. Mercy wanted to ask what had happened but she kept quiet. The banter and taunting stopped and Santa Fe’s crew became serious. They spread out moving tactically, scouts out front, flankers to the sides and two taking up the rear. They kept a low profile hugging the left side of West 52nd Street until they reached the intersection with 11th Avenue.

  Mercy looked over to the park entrance, “Christ,” she muttered.

  Santa Fe glared at her.

  Gathered around the gate and further in, partially obscured by weeds and long grass, stood about twenty skinnies. They were huddled in clusters of four or five, this was new, skinnies were supposed to be dead.

  Santa Fe pushed Mercy, they moved down 11th Avenue. After ten yards Santa Fe’s walkie talkie burst into life shattering the silence, “Central to Santa, come in Santa. Urgent update T’s group report hostile activity over on West 48th —”

  Santa Fe cursed and switched off the walkie talkie. It was too late.

  “Santa, we got company, skinnies coming this way,” one of the flankers said pointing back towards the park. Four of the undead were running towards Santa Fe’s crew, arms outstretched their mouths gaping, others were milling behind the park gates pressing forwards following the others.

  “Shit, OK, run, run, keep it together,” Santa Fe ordered. She turned to Mercy knife in hand, “I’m gonna cut you loose Dawes, stay with us, if I see you trying to escape I’ll shoot you, understand?”

  Mercy nodded her eyes darting up the avenue to the park. “Agreed.”

  Santa Fe’s crew ran down 11th Avenue and turned right into West 51st Street. Mercy glanced back, the skinnies were fast and the lead group were gaining on them. She wished she had her Glock and knife, she focused on the road ahead. The street was littered with trashed vehicles and broken glass. Clumps of weeds threatened to trip her at every step, most of the ground floor windows on the street had been smashed by looters during the Fall.

  Mercy kept to the centre of the street. She heard swearing behind her and a burst of automatic weapons fire from one of Santa Fe’s crew. She dodged around a burnt out military ambulance this time hearing more distant weapons firing. She saw the intersection with 12th Avenue in the distance and the Cruise Terminal building beyond.

  More shooting from behind, screaming.

  Movement caught her eye on the left. A group of skinnies appeared from an overgrown parking lot.

  “Skins ahead on the left,” Mercy shouted the warning.

  Santa Fe turned and opened up a concentrated burst of fire with the AR-15. Her bullets ripped through the chests of the first two skinnies dropping them to the ground, the third’s head exploded like a ripe watermelon. The others came forwards tripping over the fallen bodies.

  Mercy ran towards the intersection. The end of the street was almost blocked off by rusting cars and an overturned bus. More skinnies emerged from the car park’s exit further up the street, she veered right, across the road climbing up on the boot of a yellow cab. She jumped onto its roof, then the bonnet. The overturned bus lay just ahead.

  More gunfire from behind. Mercy felt something land on the taxi behind her, she glanced back. A skinny jumped at her from the taxi’s roof, its eyes locked onto hers, its mouth open, its hands reaching out.

  A high velocity round punched through its right eye and out the back of its skull. The corpse landed on Mercy knocking her to the bonnet. She lay there winded for a few seconds struggling under the thing’s body.

  Jazzy’s face appeared beside Mercy. Jazzy pulled the skinny off Mercy.

  “Get yourself up and over that bus Dawes. We got cover fire from the terminal—” Jazzy turned and opened up on a knot of skinnies closing in on their position with her Ingram MAC-10 machine pistol.

  Mercy felt a sharp pain in her ribs as she stood up, she ignored it and climbed up and over the overturned bus onto 12th Avenue. More high velocity rounds passed overhead. She staggered across the avenue towards the Cruise Terminal gate.

  Santa Fe appeared beside her. “You were right Dawes. Them skinnies got one of my girls. Get through the gates, they know you’re coming.” She pushed Mercy across the road. In a surreal moment Mercy noticed the crosswalk painted on the tarmac below her feet, it reminded her of the album she used to play over and over back at the orphanage.

  Mercy snapped out of her daze as more gunfire and screams erupted behind her. The gates opened, she was swept in to the compound in a rush of bodies and feet. She glanced back and saw the gates close, Santa Fe’s crew were in. Mercy looked at the girls milling about, she didn’t see Jazzy.

  “Where’s Jazzy?” Mercy asked.

  “Skinnies got her,” a girl said stony faced. “Her gun jammed—”

  Mercy fell silent and watched as the dead climbed over the bus onto 12th Avenue. One by one they were picked off by sniper fire on the terminal roof. Mercy counted twenty shots.

  Santa Fe approached Mercy. “OK Dawes, you got someone to meet. Let’s do it.” She took Mercy’s arm and led her inside the terminal along a series of corridors and up a flight of stairs. They entered a large room with views over the Hudson River to Jersey City.

  “Laurient will be here in a minute, sit down,” Santa Fe gestured to a chair.

  Mercy sat and waited, looking around the room.

  Always keep an eye on the exit —

  Mercy heard steps in the corridor outside. The door burst open and Laurient entered the room carrying a hunting rifle with telescopic sight. Her face was flushed and she was smiling, she wore a reversed baseball cap.

  “Dawes, you always seem to make a grand entrance. We meet again, good to see you… in one piece,” Laurient said walking over to a side table. She poured herself a double bourbon and downed it in one. She poured herself another double.

  “I’d offer you some of this fine bourbon, but I know you don’t drink,” Laurient opened one of the cases below the table and fished out a can of soda. “Here, try this it’s not cold but it’ll kill a thirst.”

  Mercy accepted the soda and took a long pull on the can. “So that was you on the roof then?”

  “Yeah, me and my baby,” Laurient patted the Ruger American rifle lovingly. “Got me some good sport this afternoon thanks to you and Santa Fe
here.”

  “We lost Jazzy,” Santa Fe interjected, her voice flat.

  Laurient looked shocked. “Damn it— Jazzy?” She turned away and walked over to the window. She was silent for a minute. “Where’s her body, did those things take her?”

  Santa Fe shifted on her feet. “Yeah, it happened so quick, there were at least three of them on her. They chewed her face and neck pretty bad, they got her good Laurient… I’m sorry.”

  Laurient clenched her fists, the skin stretched white over her knuckles. “Do me a favour Santa, go get a drink for yourself, debrief your crew. Send Tawny up, she’s just come in after your crew. They saw some action too, over on West 48th, I want to get the whole story, when you’ve done that come back, I want to hear your thoughts on something.”

  Santa Fe looked at Mercy then at Laurient. “Yes Laurient, will do.” She left the room without looking back.

  They were alone.

  “You got five minutes,” Laurient said to Mercy. “No audience, no saving face, no bullshit. A golden five minutes Mercy— what do you want? Tell me now or forever hold your peace,” Laurient said, she looked strained, older.

  Mercy was guarded. “What do you mean Laurient? What do I want?”

  “Yeah, cut to the chase, you’ve seen how it is, things are unravelling here. The Big Apple’s no longer big enough for the Angels, the tropes, the freaks, the skinnies and the Preacher — know what the bastard’s done? He’s taken more of my girls for his harem. He took Maggie and Bird, they’re children for Christ’s sake, children. Know what that does to me? I can’t think straight knowing what he’s doing to them, poisoning them with amber, taking their lives. Fucking men, they’re responsible for this, all of this,” Laurient waved her arms through the air. “And on the back of that my little Rose and Arabella have gone on a pie in the sky rescue mission for Maggie and Bird. What do I do with that, eh? Tell me? Took my eye off the ball on that one didn’t I, eh? I didn’t see how angry the young ones were, so angry they had to sneak off and do my dirty work for me, rescue their own from that bastard.”