Dark Water: The Chronicles of Mercy

by G. P. Moss

  “Come in,” she says with enthusiasm.

  I count nine Sisters as they walk into the room in single file. Fanned out at the edge of the office, dressed identically in the high collared blue habits, they stand quietly alert. Nobody slouches here, everyone works hard without question. None of them look older than thirty-five. I look without staring and notice more than one pair of eyes glance down at the boxes on the table. The elderly Sister addresses them.

  “Thank you for being here. I am grateful for each of you. Your commitment to our work and the willingness to embrace new, difficult, and changing concepts in the most challenging of circumstances, both pleases and humbles me. You are all highly accomplished switchers, trained in the highest healing traditions and unarmed combat. You will have noticed, quite recently, that there is a different feeling in the air. Though we strive to heal and purify, and indeed succeed hour on hour, there is a growing menace. It is hard to explain. I have thought long and hard over this but we must be ready for an attack on a level not seen since the mess.”

  The Sisters don’t flinch. Their eyes, of green, brown, blue, and grey, betray absolutely no emotion. They are called forward by name, collect a box and return to their original positions. As lightning streaks across the sky, the Sisters are lit briefly, resembling a bizarre mini army. If anything kicks off, I’d want them by my side. These magnificent women are not only healers and purifiers – they’re guardians of the whole town.

  After the Sisters depart, I ask for leave to make sure Rags is okay. Half expecting a shivering wreck, I’m relieved and grateful to find him lying at the back of the hut, well away from the worst of the weather. He licks the rain that drops from my face onto his. I speak to him softly then remember that he got along well enough without me before we met – my sympathy will be lost on him for sure.

  We bid Sister Maria goodnight and set off with Anne for the soaking walk back to the house. Before we turn right from the hotel, I look to my left and see clearly that the fires are much lower. It’s to be expected. Sister Maria told us this was the worst storm she could remember, apart from the chaos caused by the mess. And, she warned, it will get worse. How she knows is anyone’s guess. For once, I pray she’s wrong.

  As the moon continues to direct the course of the tide, the roaring sound of the waves is slowly replaced with a muffled growl. When the tide recedes far enough, the seaside north-east boundary will move once again. Shelters housing collected fuel will be ready and waiting - work in Eastsea never stops, night or day.

  Apart from the people at the fires, I don’t see anyone else out tonight. Thankfully. We squeeze through the back yard door, securing it afterwards with solid lengths of building timber held into the brickwork with bolts hammered and bent, providing tension against wind and intruders.

  Anne tells us to watch our step as puddles of water form where concrete flagstones are rutted. She says large patches of squelchy mud have been left behind as badly smashed stone was cleared or washed away. I figure that one as the toe of my right boot starts to sink. With a sucking noise, I lift it quickly out. After the drama at the beach, anything less than solid ground makes me nervous.

  I hear Anne moving levers. She turns a large key in the door, before screwing heavy bolts into a reinforced doorframe. I light two candle-stubs in the kitchen as she completes the front door checks. Security, especially here, is important.

  “If someone wants to get in, they will, but I’m not going to make it easy for them.”

  I take a candle through to the front room - the fire has reduced to embers. Removing a thin, brass-wired guard, we bring fuel from the back room. As the flames catch, the light popping and cracking sounds weak against the roar of the night. I reflect briefly on the events of the evening. As we sit around the fire, drying ourselves and our kit, I reach into my sack to retrieve the journal. I hand it to Anne. Storm strips, checks and reassembles Ghost.

  She starts at the beginning, reading a few pages until she realises it’s only railway technical stuff. I tell her the relevant pages start around four pages in from the end. She frowns, perhaps because she’s remembering the mess. She would have probably been an older teenager at the time. As she reaches the final entry, ‘Must find Holly’, she closes the book and hands it back to me. She speaks, head down, as if she’s talking to herself.

  “He survived the initial quakes. Then nothing. We’re only a few days walk away from where he was working, but no sign. For seventeen years.”

  “He was most likely attacked,” I venture. “Or decided to try a safer route.”

  “In the days, weeks and months that followed, nowhere was safe,” Anne replies.

  “Well, it wasn’t starvation. We found plenty of jerk. I mean a lot.”

  Anne lifts her head, speaking directly to me this time.

  “Holly believes he’s dead. She was told there would be no chance of survival out there. No prizes for guessing who put that into her head.”

  “David?” I guess.

  “No, it was Carrie. Straight after Carly’s death, Holly wouldn’t go anywhere near David. Carrie would just say what David had told her to say. She was young herself, and vulnerable. Still is.”

  I try not to be confused.

  “But David isn’t Carrie’s dad.”

  “Her dad died when she was a baby. David moved in with her mum later. Sarah, her name was. She died during the mess, too. A building collapse, at the council offices where she worked. He’d been chasing Carly while he was with Sarah. Carly didn’t want to be chased. Snake. A dangerous, scheming, viper of a man.”

  I’m glad I’m not the only one who feels this way but I’m sorry for Carrie, and for Holly.

  “After healing, tomorrow, I’ll see if Holly will come here. She lives up towards the western boundary with Sister Evie. Most of the Sisters live at or near the hotel, unless they have special responsibilities. Evie has always looked out for Holly since her mum died.”

  I look at her expectantly.

  “Oh me? My special responsibility is to be the dodgy one - holding a base for our maverick-in-residence - Alex. You can tell her about the railway shed as well.”

  Anne brings us thick roll-mats. With such luxury, I hope I can sleep. She packs the fireplace with fuel. It’s freezing now so we’ll all stay in here tonight. Storm is asleep first, as always. The last thing I hear tonight is a violent clash as thunder clouds collide.

  *

  The early morning light struggles to assert itself as rain bounces off the cobbles in a constant barrage. I swap my tech trousers for the camos from Anne. They feel thick and serious. She says they’re deceptive, drying quickly, even after wading in water. I believe her. It’s hard not to trust Sister Anne. I have no problem following Johnny’s rule, trust no one, usually, but with Anne, actions really do mean more than words.

  I’m glad she’s here. I’m thankful she’s Alex’s friend. I pray he comes back safe. Soon. We head to the hotel, the normal, front way this time. The early hour belies the time - a lack of daylight makes it feel like a winter afternoon.

  Any light barely stands a chance against the army of brooding clouds. At the end of the day, it feels as though we just worked a night shift. As I look to the southern boundary, then to the north-eastern, I’m grateful I’m not on fire duty. It’s a constant, thankless, stinking task to maintain the status quo. My heart is heavy as I think of the valley. There, security seemed more like disorganised ad hoc skirmishing when the need arose.

  It wasn’t always like that. After the mess and for a few years, fierce battles were pitched until we took the upper hand. Many lives were lost as the Subs kept coming. The problem was, their numbers would plummet then grow as more humans took dark water or airborne sickness, turning from normal people into throat-ripping killers with an insatiable lust for violence and destruction.

  I now believe those skirmishes happened more often than I realised. The popular view that Subs didn’t differentiate between easy pickings and danger didn’t always
ring true in the valley. Johnny and the others, including Mum, had sometimes whipped them so hard, any potentials witnessing it may have thought twice. Maybe.

  Nobody has ever been able to capture one alive to ask.

  We head back towards Anne’s house so I will know the way to Sister Evie’s. If Holly will come with us, the plan is for me to take her back. None of us want her walking alone, especially at night. Anne would like her to come to her house in case there’s anything she needs. Anything that could make her feel safer.

  Although we go further inland, I can hear the crashing waves as if they’re right behind me. Storm tells me more about the power of the tides. The enormous water pressure forced upon solid, static rock gives an impression of a futile battle but the sea always wins, eventually grinding down anything in its way. If we had peace, and security, I’d like to live by the sea. It fascinates me. Focus, Mercy.

  Storm says she’ll stay at Anne’s while we see if Holly is at home. She should be as Sister Evie knows we’re coming straight from the hotel. Holly is free to come and go as she pleases but she doesn’t venture far, preferring the quiet company at home. The thunder is absent.

  Anne taps the front door. There’s nobody on the street. The steel covering reverberates before we hear a bar sliding back. Sister Evie is tall, probably five feet nine or ten. Grey-green eyes flash fierce intelligence even in the low light. Her face is slightly rounded without being fleshy, framed with smooth, chestnut hair, falling just to her shoulders.

  Still wearing the habit from the hotel, I recognise her instantly as one of the nine healers summoned by Sister Maria. A switcher, as I now know. Not half healer, half warrior. They are full healer, full warrior. She welcomes us with a warm, wide smile.

  Holly sits on an old dark wooden chair. It rocks, slowly, backwards and forwards. If I couldn’t see her eyes open, I’d swear she was asleep.

  “Hi,” I say, quietly. She looks up in recognition but doesn’t return my smile. I’m not offended. “I saw you at the gardens.”

  “Yes,” she replies, matching my soft tone. “You were with Carrie.”

  Anne asks her if she’d like to come back with us, to offer her opinion on something. When she explains that I’ll walk her back later, she agrees.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Storm has banked the fire back at the house. Anne gives us all hot tea from a dented copper pan that hangs over the hearth. The tea is nettle, made drinkable by the healed water from the hotel. Taking the journal from my sack, I tell Holly some of my story, carefully. I describe the brick hut and that I believe this is her father’s book that I found there. She looks at me, mouth half open and silently holds out her hand for the book. As Holly Thompson reads the final entry, a tear runs down her face.

  “He did survive the initial mess,” she says quietly, with reverence. “He may still be alive.”

  I let the discovery of her dad’s written words sink in, before I speak again.

  “There was evidence that he was well stocked with food at least. Although I found the journal in a work jacket, he probably had his own, too. I assume he’d have had a bag with him. There was no reason to suggest that anyone else had entered the hut since. The door was padlocked, probably by your dad. It appears he set off with the intention of getting back here but something waylaid him. It’s possible, yes, that he may still be alive.”

  Holly doesn’t break down. There’s a transformation that even Storm and I can see, having seen her only once before. Where there were eyes of the dullest sheen, there’s now a sparkle. Even her skin looks fresher.

  “May I keep the journal, please?”

  “Of course, it’s yours.”

  Rather than feeling any kind of loss for a book so rare, a weight lifts from me. I’m happy, truly happy. To give someone genuine hope where there has been none, is a true gift, for giver and receiver alike.

  Sister Anne heads down to the cellar, returning with some items for Holly. She fills a plain olive military sack with combat trousers and jacket, a commando knife, and a boxed Glock with thirty rounds of ammunition. It’s not much but it has to go around. She tells her that Sister Evie will show her how to use it. Holly looks on with wonder, grateful for the gifts.

  It’s getting late. Holly’s older than me but doesn’t have the confidence. Not yet, anyway. We walk back in darkness. Though I have the torch, I’d rather not draw attention to ourselves. If we’re lucky, we won’t be crossing people changing shifts for boundary duty. The night is still full of rain but we can be heard above the relentless water.

  “Thank you,” she says. “For giving me hope. When I saw you with Carrie, I didn’t know what to think. It’s not her fault, Carrie I mean. I know that. Her stepfather frightens me. He frightened Mum. I remember her being so scared when he was around. She wasn’t usually nervous. Not at all. With him it was different. Creepy. She so wanted Dad to be home. She thought he’d come home. That everything would be normal again. But it never was. Old Sheila Marples told me what she saw. Even though I was very young I knew what a gossip she was, but this was different. When she told me, afterwards, she looked frightened, of what she’d said. I could tell by her eyes. With all her faults, Sheila knew I should know the truth. Mum never turned. She was murdered. By Subs. And by him. I don’t believe he’s responsible by default. He’s responsible by design. Of course, David’s story was believed. All his organising. His supposed heroics against the Subs and Hounds. A smokescreen. He’s bad. Bad through and through.”

  I feel for Holly. I’d guess she hasn’t said this much for a very long time. Sister Evie opens the door to let her in. I give a quick wave and start the fifteen-minute journey back to Anne’s. I walk for around five minutes before I sense I’m being watched. I feel the shoulder holster snug against my chest. I spin, catching a glimpse of a figure in the shadows near an alley wall. He wasn’t fast enough. From his height and slightly staggered movement, I can tell that it’s David. I know he has a shotgun.

  My stomach feels heavy but I’m trying to ignore it. The effective range of my handgun is fifty yards. He’s at least double that distance. I turn to look again but he’s gone. My heart beats too fast. I start to run, praying my boots keep a firm hold on the wet streets. I try to breathe slowly but it’s hard. Focus, Mercy. I’m gasping for breath.

  The Glock’s in my pocket but my hand is firmly on the moulded grip. If he appears now, if there is any doubt of his intentions, I will fire a bullet into his head. I reach the house, gasping. Sister Anne lets me in, sealing the door quickly.

  “He won’t come here. I can’t see him daring to take me on. He never had the chance to confront you, and now he thinks you’re discussing him with Holly. Don’t worry, I will go and see him. I’ll take Sister Evie with me. Tomorrow, when his perceived momentum has died down. Just a little chat. But we’ll be armed.”

  I just nod. It’s not that I’m particularly scared. The problem is I now have the means to dispatch him. That’s what bothers me. Sisters Maria and Anne trust me to do the right thing, at the right time. A hammering on the plastic and wire window demands my attention. Anne goes to look.

  “It’s just the rain,” she says.

  The wind has shifted, driving it heavier over the town. I go to look. Through the mesh, the rain ping pings off the plastic, off the walls. It’s bouncing off the cobbles, never stopping in its relentless quest to soak Eastsea. Anne looks thoughtful. Frowning, she speaks calmly but gravely.

  “This is the worst weather in over fifteen years. If it carries on much longer, the fires will go out. There’s little chance of maintaining them. It will leave us massively open to attack, from at least three sides. We don’t know what’s out there. How many. How close they are. But we know they’re there. Somewhere. Subs and Hounds. Alex hardly ever returns without skirmish wounds.”

  We don’t need a further reminder that we need to be fully prepared. I remove my holster. The Glock stays in my right-hand hip pocket. I unpack the smaller gun, loading a magazine. This
goes into my left jacket pocket. Storm does the same. Ghost is ready. The three of us wear full combats. We sit in Anne’s front room, a mini unit ready to fight. I think of Rags, hoping he’s okay. Focus, Mercy.

  *

  Even through the chaotic screaming of wind, rain, and thunder, we hear it. Shouting. Something’s happening. We put on ponchos. Slit pockets allow access to our jackets if needed. My heart beats hard - crazy fast. Forcing myself to breathe slowly, it gets better. Slowly. It feels so hard in my chest I feel I can hear it. Breathe, Mercy. We need to see what’s happening. If the fires started to go out, I can understand the shouting. This sounds different, frightening. We check the sacks are strapped tight to our backs. Anne drags the door open.

  To the right, at the top of the street, we see figures running. The bright fires we normally see at the northern and western boundaries are gone. I look back quickly, across the town. The southern boundary is still lit. Another ring of fire is visible before it. Small now, but hopefully it will grow. The Sisters have lit the hotel protection boundary. Rags is inside that. Focus, Mercy.

  Storm carries Ghost. Loaded, ready to fire. More people are running, towards the northern edge, not away. They aren’t going west. Anne decides we’ll check the western boundary. Those fires are out now. There’s not enough shouting from that area. It’s what worries her.

  We walk as quickly as we’re able, through the battering rain. Anne wants to check at Sister Evie’s. There’s no answer at her door, not even a face visible through the plastic. She won’t be hiding. We move on, cutting through the streets to the western edge of Eastsea. As we near the boundary lines, we look on at a scene of horror.

  Subs attempting to smash their way through unburned wood and fire debris are set upon by Hellhounds. Not all fight each other though. Some, both Subs and Hounds, are intent on one goal. Our destruction. The black birds are back, circling, waiting. The joy of a bloody spectacle is evident from the excited screeching coming from their long, crowing mouths.