The Survival Chronicles (Book 2): Angel of Mercy

by Nally, Fergal F.

  They drove in silence along New York State Route 27 the skies becoming darker and the rain heavier. Mercy took a sidelong glance at the driver.

  Know your enemy—

  He wore the same black uniform as the man in the lighthouse keeper’s house. He was well built, with short hair and keen eyes, a pistol was holstered on his right leg and a combat knife strapped to his chest webbing. She glanced into the rear of the Humvee and saw two back packs and an M4 automatic rifle.

  “Listen, don’t get any ideas,” the driver said, his voice deadpan. “Believe me you do not want to be out there, the tropes have evolved. They’re fast now and active 24/7. Anyway, you’re GPS chipped so we can track you no problem. So just relax until we get to Montauk, we’ll hunker down and wait for the storm to push through. Then we’ll make the extraction. Got it?”

  Mercy shrugged and stared at the road ahead. They passed a road sign: CAMP HERO STATE PARK. She had heard about the old World War II military base there, with its radar tower. She had seen pictures of the Hamptons and Montauk but the only beach she had ever been to was Coney Island Beach on a day trip from the orphanage. This place looked bleak and grey to her, it felt like the end of the world.

  What are tropes doing way out here? Unless they’re everywhere now—

  “Look mister I’ve been locked away in Manhattan for the last two years, bring me up to date. What’s happened since the Fall? Is the government still in control? Has the quarantine worked? Are other cities infected? What about the rest of the world?” Mercy stared straight ahead, not expecting an answer.

  The driver reached into his top pocket and pulled out a cigarette packet. He put a cigarette in his mouth, lit it and inhaled deeply. He kept his eyes on the road, “Look kid, I just follow orders. The government is finished, the United States of America is gone. It had to go, we had to take our country back, so we did. Politics, religion, capitalism, democracy— they all failed. There were too many people on the planet, too many opinions, social media, too much choice, no order, only confusion and disorder. So, long story short, they found a way to bring order out of chaos, the phage virus was the solution. The cull was supposed to be 30% of the world’s population, enough to restore balance—” he took another pull on his cigarette.

  Mercy looked at him. “The cull?”

  His hands gripped the wheel, his knuckles white. “Yeah, the cull of the human race. The virus they released was military grade, bio engineered from one of the haemorrhagic fevers. It was supposed to burn itself out, self-destruct after a month or so.”

  “But it didn’t—” Mercy said.

  “Damn right it didn’t, it took off, like a forest fire and spread everywhere,” he blinked, frowning.

  “But who would do such a thing? To murder all those people, to release this virus, it’s insane—” Mercy said.

  The driver looked at her. “It’s the best thing that’s ever happened, the reset button’s been pressed. Humanity’s been given a second chance; overpopulation, disease, war, famine, religion, climate change— don’t you remember all that shit? We culled the population just in time. We brought order back to the world. They’ll soon have the solution to the virus now that we’ve found you. We can defeat the tropes and the dead, then we can start rebuilding and create a new world.”

  Mercy could not believe what she was hearing. “You said they’ll soon have the solution. Who are they?”

  “The Colonel, Colonel Randel and Cobalt Biotech, they’re the founders of our new nation. They have enough supplies and manpower to outlast this plague and they have the right people to find the kill switch for the virus.”

  Mercy processed this information. “What have I got to do with all this?” she said, perplexed.

  “I don’t know the details, but I heard you were bit by a freak in some New York subway station after the Fall. The freak’s visor cam relayed the footage back to the military, you were unconscious but didn’t turn. You remained uninfected, that caught their attention. So they looked into you, turns out you’ve got some genetic condition that makes you immune to the virus. Your immune system is the answer to all this, you’re going to help us defeat the virus.”

  Mercy stared blankly out the window, her mind numb. They passed a sign for Shadmoor State Park.

  “We’re a quarter mile from Montauk. The Colonel cleared it a few weeks back but more tropes have come from Long Island and back west, they know we’re here. We’ve got a secure bunker in town, we can stay there until the extraction tomorrow. We’ll need to leave the Humvee on the outskirts of town, it’ll be quieter on foot, you good with that?”

  Mercy looked across at him. “Guess I’ll have to be. What’s your name anyway?”

  “Roberts, corporal, NSA… New State Army.”

  “I’m Mercy Dawes, but you knew that anyway.”

  Roberts said nothing. He slowed the Humvee and parked beside a sign which read: WELCOME TO MONTAUK, SETTLED 1660. The rain fell in sheets hammering the Humvee’s roof.

  “There’s two packs in the back with food and water, one’s yours, sorry, but I can’t give you a weapon. You’ll just have to stay close to me. I know the way to the bunker, you don’t. If we spot tropes do exactly as I say, understand?”

  “Not got much choice have I?” Mercy answered.

  “Guess not,” Roberts shrugged. “Ready?”

  Mercy nodded and opened the door stepping into the rain. She was soaked in a matter of seconds. She opened the rear door, took one of the packs and put it on. Roberts did the same and took the M4 automatic rifle.

  Mercy closed the door and waited for Roberts to join her. She scanned the road ahead and saw houses through the trees. The rain would help them avoid detection. The military had painted yellow quarantine markings on the road surface outside each house; the numbers of living and dead in each family, along with other symbols Mercy did not recognise. Roberts joined her and handed her a poncho. She put it on over the back pack and was grateful for its protection against the wind and rain.

  Roberts locked the Humvee and turned to Mercy, he had to shout to be heard above the storm. “Eyes open, we want to avoid tropes, not take them on, OK?”

  Mercy met his eyes and replied, “Got it. You sure you don’t want to give me a weapon? Even a blade?”

  Roberts shook his head. He turned away and started walking along the road. The storm was worsening, Mercy looked at the late afternoon sky, it would be dark in a few hours. They needed to find shelter and soon, tropes were always hungrier at night.

  She reflected on what Roberts had told her. He had not given her information on Flynn and the others. Maybe he didn’t know about them, and anyway was he telling her the truth? It was all bullshit, the whole thing. She had to stay with him for the moment; Roberts was her only link to Flynn and the others.

  Roberts kept to the middle of the road, M4 at the ready. Mercy counted six magazines on his webbing, she calculated thirty rounds per magazine, he had about a hundred and eighty rounds in total.

  OK, so another reason to stick with him—

  Mercy looked at the houses set back on either side of the road. Their empty windows stared at her like eye sockets, dark and foreboding. She pulled the poncho close, she was cold and hungry.

  They passed a cluster of abandoned cars long since looted and stripped of fuel. Up ahead concrete blocks and rusting razor wire lay across the road; an old army checkpoint from the Fall. Mercy looked around, in the cars, on the ground, searching for anything she could use to defend herself.

  Nothing.

  Roberts climbed over the concrete blocks and waited for her, peering into the rain ahead. The road and driveways were overgrown with weeds and long grass, everywhere lush and green.

  Nature’s reclaiming what’s hers. Mercy reflected; in a way it was beautiful to see so much life bursting forth from the earth. She had witnessed so much death in the city, this was like a different planet. But she knew death lingered just below the surface, it was always waiting for her to make
a mistake. She clenched her fists and looked back at the Humvee a hundred yards away.

  Movement? Way back along the road. Shit—

  She reached out and tapped Roberts on the shoulder. He turned to her. Mercy pointed at the Humvee. “We’re being followed.”

  Roberts narrowed his eyes and looked into the distance. “Run.”

  They ran along the highway passing buildings on either side, they were in a built up area, the street opened up, a green space in the middle and buildings to the left and right. Mercy spotted a street sign emblazoned: THE PLAZA. She glanced back but nothing moved. Roberts ran along the road bisecting the Plaza, he veered off to the right across the green area towards a low building with a portico. Mercy saw the word BANK peeking out from a tangle of ivy at the front of the building.

  Roberts ran up the building’s steps to the portico. He bent down, picked up a plastic container and opened it. “Come here quick, to the door, I’ll cover the ground with wood turpentine. Masks our scent.”

  Mercy went to the front door and watched as Roberts gave the portico floor a liberal coating of the turpentine, its smell filled the air. He threw the empty container away and went to the door punching a code into an electronic lock.

  “You got electricity?” Mercy asked, amazement in her voice.

  Roberts did not answer, he opened the door and pushed her through. As they crossed the threshold a scream tore through the air on the other side of The Plaza, more screams followed. Mercy instinctively reached for her sidearm then remembered she was unarmed. Her eyes scanned the gloomy interior of the bank’s entrance hall. She could see tellers’ desks and the open public area; a large group of people had been using the place until recently. Sleeping mats and sleeping bags were strewn on the floor, half-finished cups of coffee and litter lay everywhere.

  Guns—

  Mercy spotted the gun rack behind the tellers’ section; M4 automatic rifles for the most part. A few holstered pistols hung from the rack, she licked her lips, she would bide her time. Her eyes flicked around the rest of the interior, the windows were barred and bolted, long shutters blocking out the day light. The floor was marble and the ceiling looked strong. As a bank it would have a vault, it certainly was a good base of operations for the New State Army. But it looked as if the bank had been left in a hurry.

  The new tropes have driven out the NSA— Mercy concluded.

  Then she saw blood stains on the walls and drag marks on the floor. The blood was recent, one wall was almost covered. Tropes had got in. They had breached the bank’s defences. Mercy turned to Roberts who was peering out a slit in the door.

  “I can’t see them, but they’re out there. Bastards, these ones move too fast, you shoot and miss, they’re like ghosts. They communicate with each other—” Roberts said.

  “Roberts, check out the wall and ceiling. When was the last time you were here? It looks as if they got in somehow, if they got in once they’ll get in again. I think we should leave, we’ve backed ourselves into a corner,” Mercy said, concern edging her voice.

  Roberts looked away from the slit, his eyes widened when he saw the wall. “Shit. This place was supposed to be secure, we need to do a perimeter check right now, find out where they got in.”

  Without warning something pounded on the door shaking it, scratching sounds came from the other side. Roberts pressed his eye to the slit, his face went pale. He jerked away. “I need to radio base, this location is compromised. We’ll need to leave, wing it, maybe head over to the docks. If we can get across Lake Montauk there’s a small airfield on the other side. It was clear before all this, we could meet the chopper there.”

  Roberts headed to the back of the room behind the tellers’ kiosks. Mercy followed him, the banging at the door intensified and was joined by more banging on the window shutters. Roberts went to a radio in the corner and switched a lantern on. He flicked a switch on the radio, its green digital screen lit up. He grabbed the handset and keyed in a frequency code.

  “Roberts to base, Roberts to base, come in base, over.”

  Crackling static filled the air. He tried again.

  “Roberts to base, Roberts to base, come in base, over. Anyone there?”

  More static.

  “Shit, the storm’s interfering with the signal, or something’s wrong with the radio,” Roberts said. He held the microphone to his mouth and spoke again, “Roberts to base, I’m sending you this message in case you can hear me. I have the subject. Repeat, I have the subject. We’re in the bank in Montauk, but this location has been compromised. We are moving to a new location, will try and reach Montauk docks and then airfield. Repeat will try and reach Montauk docks, then airfield. Will try and make contact from airfield tomorrow, have flares, repeat have flares, will use flares to signal our position to extraction team. This is Roberts, over and out.” He stopped, his head sunk forwards touching the cool wall.

  The banging at the door and windows stopped, breaking the spell. Roberts looked up, unease written across his face. “What the fuck are they doing now?”

  Mercy stepped towards the gun rack. “Roberts, you can shoot me if you want but I don’t think you will because I’m too valuable. If we’re about to be killed like your buddies back at the lighthouse I want to go down fighting. So do what you gotta do, the way I see it, at the moment, we’re on the same side.”

  Mercy reached the gun rack and selected an M4 and four magazines which she put into her pack, she took a Colt Anaconda .44 magnum and holster. She heard a pistol cock behind her and turned to face Roberts. He was pointing his Smith and Wesson 629 magnum at a dark area in the ceiling in the corner of the room.

  Mercy heard a scratching noise on the roof.

  “Fuckers are coming in through the air conditioning, look over there, the ceiling grille’s been torn off.” Roberts shone his torch at the ceiling above the blood stained wall. His light revealed a dark hole where an air vent grille had once been, the ceiling was pockmarked with bullet holes.

  “But that’s too small for a trope to get through,” Mercy heard herself say. The noises on the roof intensified and they heard scratching from the air conditioning shaft.

  “I don’t care how they’re doing it, I’m getting the fuck outta here, let’s go,” Roberts went to the door behind the tellers’ section. He entered a code into the door’s keypad, it remained locked. “Shit, concentrate. Get it right.” He tried again, the lock’s LED turned green and a soft click came from the lock. “That’s what I’m talking about,” he said, opening the door. They went through, shutting the door behind them.

  Mercy glanced through the door’s narrow window of reinforced glass back into the tellers’ area, the light from the lantern beside the radio threw some illumination at the ceiling. A dark shape was emerging from the shaft, Mercy struggled to understand what it was, it looked like pieces of a trope, misshapen, broken, being pushed through bit by bit, reassembling itself as it exited the opening.

  Shit, damn tropes have upped their game—

  Mercy pulled away from the door and went after Roberts. He moved down the corridor past a lift and a staircase leading down. Roberts hesitated, looking at the lift.

  “We could take our chances and hide in the vault,” he said aloud, uncertainty in his voice.

  “Not if you’ve just seen what I’ve seen,” Mercy said. “If you want to live we’ve got to keep moving.”

  Roberts turned to look at her, he was about to speak when his eyes widened focusing on something behind Mercy. The sound of splintering glass filled the corridor. Mercy looked back at the locked door and froze. A trope’s disfigured body was squeezing itself through the door’s broken pane of glass.

  Chapter 4 Deeper

  “Run,” Roberts said, dread in his voice.

  They ran to the door at the end of the corridor. Roberts entered a code into the keypad, his hand shaking. Grinding sounds came from behind, Mercy glanced back, the trope was halfway through the window, its skull, elongated and distorted, i
ts shoulders dislocated, its ribcage compressed.

  The keypad LED turned green, the lock disengaged. Roberts pushed the door open and peered outside. Mercy shoved him from behind.

  “Move Roberts, move, there’s no time,” Mercy shouted.

  Roberts threw himself into the carpark. The sky was angry, rain hammered onto the ground and wind tore at Mercy’s hair. Roberts fumbled at his webbing, he jerked Mercy to one side of the door and pulled the pin on a grenade, he lobbed it down the corridor and slammed the door.

  “Go, go, go,” he bellowed.

  Mercy needed no encouragement. They charged across the carpark, towards the nearest building. A loud explosion erupted behind, the bank’s door burst from its hinges followed by a tongue of flame.

  Mercy reached the opposite building and followed Roberts to the corner. She looked back and saw movement on the bank’s roof, a low keening came from The Plaza in the distance. Distorted screams answered from different directions.

  They’re communicating, working together, hunting us—

  Roberts disappeared around the corner, Mercy followed. A sign read: MONTAUK POLICE PRECINCT. Roberts was out front leaning over a police motorcycle. Its keys were in the ignition, the bike looked in good condition, Roberts mounted it and gunned the engine.

  “Quick, get on,” he ordered.

  Mercy slung the M4 rifle across her back, she pulled the Colt Anaconda from its holster and jumped on the bike. Roberts leant forwards and opened the throttle, the bike shot forwards onto the street. Mercy saw a street sign: SOUTH EMBASSY STREET. A needle like pain gripped her stomach, she looked up to see a dark shape launch through the air from the police station roof towards the bike.

  Mercy pointed the Colt Anaconda at the trope and shot six times. The bike raced by, the trope crumpled to the ground its high pitched scream filling the air. Roberts flinched, he swerved and the bike skidded, narrowly missing a car. He managed to turn into an adjacent street.

  The smell of burning rubber filled the air as Roberts wrenched back control of the skidding bike. They plunged east down South Euclid Avenue away from the police station. Mercy could feel Roberts’s fear, she could smell it.