Angel of Mercy
The Survival Chronicles II
By
Fergal F. Nally
Copyright © Fergal F. Nally 2018
The moral right of Fergal F. Nally to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act, 1988.
All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing of the author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
Cover design: Beetiful Book Covers
Table of Contents
Chapter 1 Implantation
Chapter 2 Island End
Chapter 3 Montauk
Chapter 4 Deeper
Chapter 5 Star Island
Chapter 6 Airport
Chapter 7 Belly of the Beast
Chapter 8 Portland
Chapter 9 North Victory Platform
Chapter 10 Storax Sedan
Chapter 11 Immersion
Chapter 12 Locked In
Chapter 13 Lost Hope
Chapter 14 Fugitives
Chapter 15 The Grove
Chapter 16 Aftermath
Chapter 17 Approach
Chapter 18 The Family Philips
Chapter 19 Denton
Chapter 20 Crossing
Chapter 21 Collapse
Chapter 22 Secrets
Chapter 23 Infiltration
Chapter 24 Rising
About the Author
“Let them hate, so long as they fear—”
(Caligula, Roman Emperor AD 12-41)
Chapter 1 Implantation
“Human Trial, Phage Virus KZ 376, parasite implantation complete.”
“Good, proceed to stage two.”
Mercy’s eyelids fluttered; bright lights, white ceiling and walls, monitors and computers. Black rubber gloves reached out to her from beneath a mirrored window.
So heavy, feel weak, my head hurts. Flynn? Where are you? Flynn?
“Subject’s conscious level is fluctuating, heart rate 121, blood pressure 188 over 110—”
“Increase sedation and optimize intravenous fluids.”
An invisible hand reached up behind Mercy and pulled her back into unconsciousness.
Pain. Cold. Nausea.
Am I dead? No, I must be alive. The pain makes me want to scream, but there’s nothing left—
Mercy heard her heart, she listened to the monitor’s electronic pulse. Her eyelids were stuck together, her mouth was dry, her stomach ached. There was something else, something moving deep inside her. She tried to lift her arms and legs but felt restraints. The tape securing her right eyelid became unstuck, she blinked and stared at her surroundings.
White, stark walls, the room lay in semi-darkness except for the glowing monitors. She saw clear tubes carrying fluids into her veins, tubes supplying oxygen to her lungs, a white hospital smock covered her body. Her feet lay exposed at the end of the gurney, distant, they did not look part of her.
“Where am I? How long have I been here?” Questions flooded Mercy’s mind, followed by fragments of memory. A high fence, a minefield, a wall. Inwood Hill Park, the Henry Hudson Bridge. The men in yellow hazmat suits.
She remembered the last words spoken to her: You’re quite right Mercy Dawes— we’ve been waiting two years to extract you. It’s good to finally meet.
She remembered the cage containing Vince, Rose, Dakota, Stevie, Rites and Tawny. Where were her friends?
Where’s Flynn?
Mercy struggled against the restraints, straps pinned her arms and legs to the gurney. Her mind processed the information, her anger grew. With it came pain and the movement inside her. She looked at the hospital smock.
What have they done to me?
The pain reached a crescendo and darkness took her.
A soft hiss, footsteps, a metallic noise. Mercy’s eyelids fluttered, she opened her right eye, a blurred figure stood beside her. The person wore a yellow hazmat suit, they moved with care. A metal tray carrying vials and syringes lay near Mercy’s left arm, the person was filling a syringe from one of the vials.
Mercy tensed, they were giving her more drugs through the intravenous lines attached to her arms. The person was on her right, she watched as they moved towards the drip port. A monitor let out a loud beep and the person stopped to examine the display. Dull pressure grew in Mercy’s arm, the drip monitor continued its electronic alarm.
A woman’s voice came from within the hazmat suit. “Shit, blocked cannula—”
The woman returned the syringe to the metal tray and stooped to open a drawer in the trolley beside the drip stand. Mercy closed her right eye. The woman turned to face Mercy, a fresh cannula in her hand. She leaned over Mercy, staring at her face, listening to her breathing. The woman felt Mercy’s pulse. Seconds passed, Mercy dared not look, she waited.
The woman examined Mercy’s right arm, then put pressure on the drip site with a ball of cotton wool and removed the blocked cannula. She placed a tourniquet around Mercy’s arm and tapped the skin searching for a new vein for the replacement cannula. Minutes passed until the moment Mercy had been waiting for.
“As usual, no veins—” the woman said, sighing.
She loosened the restraining strap on Mercy’s right arm moving it to one side to have a better view of the skin. Mercy pulled her arm free and lashed out at the woman hitting the hazmat visor. The woman reeled, falling backwards, Mercy freed herself from the upper strap and sat up reaching for her leg restraints. The woman recovered her balance and lurched at Mercy, her arms outstretched.
“No, no, you mustn’t do that, it’s too soon for you to move,” the woman said, her voice frantic.
Mercy hit the quick release buckle on the lower strap freeing her legs and jumped from the gurney. She staggered, stumbling to the floor, knocking over a second drip stand ripping the cannula from her left arm. Her legs were weak, her head spinning. Nausea bubbled up through her stomach.
“No, leave me alone bitch, what have you done to me? Where are my friends?” Mercy replied.
The woman held her hand out in a pacifying gesture and edged around the gurney towards Mercy, her other hand pressed a silent alarm on her belt. She had to control the subject, the experiment was at a critical phase. If the genetically modified parasite accepted the host’s body then maybe, just maybe the biotech would work.
“Mercy, calm down, you’ll hurt yourself. Your body is weak, you need to rest and build up your strength. Please, let me help you,” the woman rounded the corner of the gurney and stepped towards Mercy.
Somewhere deep inside Mercy a survival instinct kicked in, a growl welled up in her throat. Her hand reached out to the drip stand, she grabbed it, brandishing it at the woman.
“Keep away, keep away from me. What the hell have you done?” Mercy shouted, a sickening pain gripped her stomach, her vision blurred. She dropped the drip stand and clutched her stomach in alarm. As the wave of pain receded she reached down to her gown and pulled it up. A six centimetre surgical wound held together by steel clips stretched across her upper abdomen, Mercy stared in shock.
“What’s this? What is it?” Mercy
asked, her voice small and hollow.
“We’ve done what’s necessary Mercy, everything will be fine. Here, let me help you,” the woman stepped forwards, her arms outstretched.
A noise from behind barely registered on Mercy’s consciousness, the wound on her abdomen held her whole attention. The room swarmed with yellow and orange hazmat suits. Strong arms lifted her onto the gurney and strapped her down, she watched, numb, as fresh drips were inserted into the back of her hands. A dull ache trickled up her arms and she felt the familiar dark curtain descend.
The last thing she remembered was the surgical wound, staring at her, its cold steel clips glinting in the artificial light.
Chapter 2 Island End
“Increase her sedation for the transfer, we don’t want another incident like the last one,” a male voice said on the edge of Mercy’s consciousness.
Darkness.
Muffled sounds. A dog barking.
Pink light. A breeze. Fluttering eyelids. Dry mouth, heavy arms and legs. Mercy blinked and opened her eyes. She was in a room, a normal room on a normal bed. She looked down, she wore a tee shirt and leggings. She moved her finger, then made a fist, she curled her toes. A distant tapping on the window, rain. She looked around the room, wooden floorboards, a ceiling light, a chair, wardrobe and dresser. A jug, washbowl and white towel on the dresser.
Where am I? Was it all a dream, a nightmare? Am I back in the orphanage?
Mercy sat up, looked at her arms and saw the needle tracks. Her eyes widened, she pulled up the tee shirt. A six centimetre abdominal scar was there, faint, the steel clips gone. She had lost weight, her ribs protruded, her arms and legs were thinner. She felt the scar. She pressed her stomach, no pain, she pressed harder, no pain. No lumps, no movement. Nothing.
Outside the dog started barking again, she looked at the window. Sunlight filtered in through the net curtains filling the room with a hazy light. The floorboards felt cool to her bare feet as she walked to the window. A breeze ruffled the curtains, she caught a glimpse of a car. Seagulls screeched in the distance. She parted the net curtains and looked down onto a grassy area, an old flagpole stood to attention its red and black flag billowing in the wind. A US Army Humvee sat on the drive.
The rain was heavy, the sky grey, a high fence surrounded the area, topped by razor wire. A fortified gate lay some distance away at the front of the property. Mercy’s eyes went to the road beyond the gate. The land rolled away in a series of low hills, she could hear the sea. Her mind raced; they had brought her to the coast.
Who the hell were they?
Mercy turned back to the room, went to the dresser and looked in the mirror. She did not recognise the face that stared back at her. Where had her long hair gone? She was shorn to the scalp. Her eyes were sunken, haunted.
Christ, I’ve aged—
The floorboards creaked underfoot, she felt lightheaded and gripped the dresser. Footsteps outside the room, the dog barking again. Why was the dog barking? Mercy faced the door, the sound of a key in the lock, the handle turning. A man dressed in a black combat jacket and black trousers stepped into the room, three red flashes on his collar, a uniform of some sort. His hair grey and short, his eyes intense, she noticed the holstered gun at his side. She stiffened and held her breath, her eyes flicked to the corridor beyond, she calculated angles, distances.
I could take him—
He moved forwards, his eyes riveted to hers. “I see you’re up, welcome back to the land of the living. There’s fresh clothes in the wardrobe, I’d advise you to dress for the cold, we’ve got boots for you downstairs. We’re leaving in a few minutes, trope activity has increased around the headland. They’re fast— faster than before. I have orders to get you out of here. Helicopter evacuation is arranged, weather’s deteriorating so we’re going inland to Camp Hero for the extraction.”
Mercy blinked. “Camp Hero?” she repeated, her eyes blank.
I could reach his gun—
“Don’t worry Dawes, you’ll be debriefed once we get to safety,” he walked to the wardrobe and opened it. “Get dressed,” he ordered, his voice harsh. “I’ll wait in the corridor.”
“Hang on, where am I? Who are you? Where are my friends?” Mercy asked, her voice shaking.
The man ignored her and left the room, keeping the door ajar. Mercy heard the dog barking again. Barking dogs were never good, not since the Fall. She selected a pair of jeans, a fresh shirt and vest from the wardrobe. A thick woollen jumper and socks completed her look. She went to the door and opened it, the man gestured her to follow him, he led the way down the corridor to a staircase.
Mercy tried again. “Hey, where is this place?”
Without looking back the man replied. “Montauk Point Lighthouse, this is the keeper’s house, it was a museum before the Fall. Used to be far enough away from the tropes to give us some peace but not now. They’re on the move again. There’s your boots, in the hall, put them on.”
Montauk Point Lighthouse, the eastern tip of Long Island. I’m outside Manhattan, I’ve made it out— disbelief washed over Mercy. She put the leather boots on and laced them up, they were the right size. This has all been planned.
The man went to the front door and pulled out his SIG 9mm automatic pistol. He peered through the glass pane in the door. Outside, the barking dog was straining at his chain, frenzied.
“Shit, it’s here. We’ll need to break out,” he turned to Mercy looking her in the eye. “The virus is here, tropes are at the gates, just a few but once they see us there’ll be others. You want to live? You’ll do exactly as I say. When I open this door run straight for the Humvee, one of my men will drive you to Camp Hero to meet with the helicopter. Got it?”
Mercy nodded, thinking ahead. Perhaps with this trope diversion she could escape, she chewed her lip and looked at the door. This was real, this was happening, she would go along with the plan for the moment.
The man opened the door and looked out, his SIG raised. Mercy glanced over his shoulder as he moved down the steps. She ran to the Humvee and opened the passenger door.
The driver looked at her. “Get in. Those tropes’ll be over the fence pretty soon.”
Mercy climbed in, slammed the door and locked it. She looked out the window to see the uniformed man along with six other armed men heading towards the gate. The barking had stopped, the dog had vanished.
“Buckle up, it’s going to be interesting. More tropes are inbound,” the driver said. He let the handbrake off and engaged gear. The Humvee lurched forwards catching up with the men on foot. Mercy turned and saw the old lighthouse towering up behind the keeper’s house. Wind and rain battered the Humvee, its windscreen wipers were going full pelt. Mercy had not been in a moving vehicle since before the Fall two years earlier, a wave of nausea welled up inside her, she brought her hand to her mouth.
The men outside started shooting their automatic rifles at the group of tropes. Mercy watched as the trope bodies shook with the impact of the bullets. One trope looked straight at the Humvee and jumped onto the fence climbing it in a heartbeat. It threw itself over the top and landed on the grass. The men converged on the gate firing at the knot of tropes on the other side.
The trope on the grass screamed and ran towards the Humvee. Mercy’s eyes widened, she had never seen a trope move so fast, it jumped onto the Humvee’s bonnet and smashed its head against the windscreen.
“Fuck,” the driver said. He threw the Humvee into reverse throwing the trope from the bonnet. He floored the accelerator ramming the trope head on, a sickening crunch followed and it disappeared from view below the Humvee. The men at the gate had cut down most of the other tropes, they were finishing off a cluster further along the fence. Two of the men were unlocking the gate for the Humvee. The driver’s eyes darted left and right then focused on the distance, his face hardened.
“Shit, there’s more coming,” he said. He hit the accelerator not waiting for the gate to open fully. Mercy saw a line of tropes, fi
fty or sixty strong, emerging over the low bluffs on the right. They were running towards the lighthouse.
The Humvee sprang forwards crashing into the gate, bringing it down in a tangled heap. They struck one of the men as they drove over the gate. Mercy held on to her seat as the Humvee left the enclosure and raced down the road. She looked right and saw the new tropes reach the fence, the men were running back towards the keeper’s house firing as they went. Mercy turned to face the road ahead, her eye caught the wing mirror; the two men at the gate had disappeared under a cluster of tropes.
The virus has evolved— her mind was numb.
The single track road joined a main road, the driver swerved to avoid a large pothole.
“Keep it together, dammit,” he said aloud.
Mercy decided to engage. “Who are you people? What’s this all about? Where are my friends?”
The driver looked at her, “Don’t you know anything? We’re patriots, we’re fighting for our country. You’re going to help us.”
The Humvee’s radio burst into life. “Alpha one to alpha two, over. What’s your position?”
The driver flicked a switch. “Alpha one this is alpha two, over. We’ve left Montauk Point, the compound has been overrun by tropes. Some men still left in there, can you send help?”
“Negative alpha one, Category 1 storm closing in, helicopter extraction from Camp Hero aborted, repeat aborted. Suggest you head for Montauk town and hole up there. We will arrange extraction when storm cleared, over.”
The driver slowed the Humvee, concentration lining his face. “Alpha two, why don’t I just head to Camp Hero, over?”
A pause filled by static. “Alpha one, Camp Hero has been… compromised.”
Mercy looked out of the rain spattered window.
And it begins—
Chapter 3 Montauk
The Survival Chronicles (Book 2): Angel of Mercy Page 1
