Fear Mercy

by Fergal F. Nally

  Hornet’s nest—

  Rose reached up to Mercy. The nearest super trope leapt onto the bonnet and grabbed Rose’s ankle. Mercy reached down and grasped Rose’s outstretched arm, the super trope pulled back. Rose lashed out with her free foot as Mercy emptied the remainder of the SIG’s magazine into the super trope’s body.

  The trope released Rose, its wrist shattered by one of Mercy’s 9mm rounds. Mercy hauled Rose up the windshield to the turret and pushed her friend head first through the hatch. The super tropes were screaming, their high pitched cries filling the air. Mercy jumped through the open hatch, feet first, landing on a platform below. As she reached up to close the hatch, a helmeted face loomed above. The super trope thrust its arm through the hatch reaching for Mercy’s neck.

  Mercy released the hatch door, braced herself and pulled out her knife. The trope swiped at her and missed. Mercy lunged up and thrust her blade under the visor into its neck, she twisted the blade and met resistance. The super trope’s head lolled forwards, its arm paralysed. She pushed hard against its body ramming it away from the hatch. More visored faces appeared around the turret, she slammed the hatch shut and engaged the lock.

  Tropes clawed and hammered against the armoured truck on all sides. Mercy slumped on the platform clutching her slick blade. The inside of the truck was dark, her eyes not yet adjusted.

  That was close—

  “Rose, hey Rose, you OK back there—?”

  God, that stench—

  A scuffle. A scream. Deafening gunfire.

  Chapter 19

  Savage

  Sparks off the metal ceiling.

  Ricochet, Jesus Christ. Rose—?

  Three muzzle flashes lit up the interior of the truck. Mercy reached for her gun but realised she had dropped it when she had thrown herself through the hatch. She gripped her blade and tensed. Her ears rang with the gunfire in the enclosed space. She felt for the torch on her webbing. Something gripped her right ankle and pulled her back.

  What—?

  Guttural sounds came from the driver’s seat. Mercy swung around and stared into a leering, skeletal face. Dim light filtered into the front of the vehicle through the grimy windshield. The trope strained against its seat belt, trying to reach Mercy on the turret platform. Mercy squatted and sawed at the trope’s wrist, severing its tendons. Its hand fell away, the trope continued to struggle against the seat belt, trying to reach her. She leant forwards and thrust her blade into its skull. It slumped into the seat, unmoving.

  Inside fell silent. Outside, hell raged. Bodies slammed and hammered into the truck. Fingers clawed at the doors and windows, the trope mob surrounded the vehicle, clambering on its bonnet and roof.

  “Rose? You back there?” Mercy switched her torch on.

  Rose was sitting in the corner, SIG 1911 in hand, her head down, her shoulders hunched.

  Mercy slid from the platform onto the floor. A trope in uniform lay at Rose’s feet, a gaping hole where the base of its skull had been.

  “Rose?” Mercy clutched her knife. “Rose, you OK? You bit?”

  Rose started shaking. Mercy stiffened. Rose threw her head back and laughed, tears streaming down her face.

  “I love this shit,” she stared at Mercy. “The only time I’m not scared is when I’m out here in it, part of it, staring it down. I’m scared when I’m away from it, even for a night. Does that make sense? Does that make me insane?” Rose’s eyes were wide, unblinking.

  Mercy slumped against the side bench. Her eyes swept over Rose’s skin and arms.

  She’s not bit, how does she do that? Kill them with no light?

  “Didn’t you say on Grand Cayman that your night vision was improving?” Mercy played back her memory of a snatched conversation.

  A pause.

  “Yeah, I did,” Rose’s voice sounded hollow.

  She looks scared despite what she says, scared and small, a teenage girl. A teenage killer—

  “Hey Rose don’t sweat it, this thing, this new life, it’s changing us all. I get nervous when I’m away from it. The virus lives in these tropes, animating them, sometimes I look into their eyes and see it, the virus. These super tropes even more so, it’s as if the virus is sentient, trying to communicate somehow. Does that make me insane?”

  Rose shook her head, “No, I feel it’s all leading somewhere, all we’re doing is catching a ride on a giant wave, the tide is pulling us in… we’re just keeping our heads above water.”

  Mercy ran her fingers through her hair. The banging on the roof intensified, the mob were managing to rock the truck with their combined weight.

  “We’d better do something, it’s getting worse outside,” Rose stood up, she held her hand out to Mercy.

  “Let’s see if we can start this thing,” Mercy clambered into the front of the vehicle, stopping to pick up her SIG P226 from the floor. She reloaded it and chambered a round.

  Between them they managed to drag the dead driver to the back of the truck. Mercy slid into the driver’s seat, Rose took the passenger seat.

  “Thank fuck… key’s in the ignition,” Mercy said.

  She turned the key, the truck’s dashboard lit up and the engine burst into life.

  “Hell yeah,” Rose whooped, clapping her hands together.

  “That’s what I’m talking about,” Mercy said.

  “What’s that hiss?” Rose asked, looking around.

  Mercy’s hands went to the dashboard, then to the radio set on the floor.

  “Radio’s live, it’s just static,” Mercy replied.

  “Can you drive this thing?” Rose asked.

  “We’re about to find out, looks… complicated,” Mercy shouted above the noise.

  She pushed the clutch down and engaged gear, she released the clutch, the truck lurched back, crushing tropes behind.

  “OK, so that’s reverse,” Mercy’s hands hovered over the dashboard, blue emergency lights flashed on the truck’s roof, the windscreen wipers swept into action lubricated by jets of screen wash.

  The grime on the windshield cleared revealing the mob of tropes surrounding the vehicle. The hardware store’s glass front stretched out on the left.

  Rose looked up at the ceiling, “There must be loads of the fuckers on the roof.”

  Mercy bit her lip, “Hang on, I’ve got an idea, brace yourself.”

  Mercy changed gear and put her foot on the accelerator, the truck lurched forwards, juddering as its huge tyres burst more trope bodies.

  “Nice,” Rose gritted her teeth.

  The glass storefront grew nearer. A second later the truck smashed through the window into the salesroom. Mercy kept her foot on the accelerator, the truck ploughed forwards, the store’s low ceiling sweeping tropes off the truck. Aisles of goods knocked tropes from the sides of the vehicle.

  “Fuckers are getting thrown off,” Rose said, looking in the side mirror.

  Mercy steered towards the back of the building. Shelves and ceiling debris crashed to the floor sealing the truck from the outside world.

  “Woah,” Rose shouted. “Stop—”

  Mercy slammed the brakes on, they came to a halt. A concrete wall loomed twenty feet away, bathed in the truck’s blue flashing lights.

  “Not sure we should take on a reinforced concrete wall,” Rose said. “Just saying—”

  Mercy rubbed her forehead, “No, I agree, good call.”

  Rose leant forwards and peered out her window. “Looks as if we’re in the storage area, can you find the headlights for this thing?”

  Mercy’s fingers explored the steering column, twisting and pressing buttons. The headlights and sidelights sprang to life illuminating the space ahead.

  “Yeah, it’s the stock area,” Mercy said.

  Rose craned her neck and pointed left, “Over there, along the back wall. Do you see what I see?”

  Mercy’s face broke into a grin, “Oxy-acetylene rigs; loads of them.”

  “We only need one,” Rose beamed. She lo
oked out her tinted window, “Look, there’s no tropes, half the building’s collapsed around us, we’re sealed off. We can reverse out when we’re ready. Meantime I can get one of them oxy rigs—”

  Mercy squinted out of her window and checked her mirror, “No tropes visible. OK, go, but be quick, bring it round to your door I’ll cover you from here.”

  Rose jumped down, slamming her door behind her. A metallic click came from the door frames. Red lights flickered on the dashboard, an automated voice announced: “Security protocol notification: Doors deadlocked, repeat, doors deadlocked. Driver access code required to revoke command. Internal manual override available.”

  What the fuck—?

  Mercy looked at the dashboard, then at Rose outside. Rose was at the oxy-acetylene rigs.

  The truck’s locked her out—

  The radio burst into life, static filling the cabin. A male voice reached through the interference: “Bay Central to RT Red 6, acknowledge, over.”

  Static.

  Shit, militia, calling us—

  “Red 6, acknowledge, your signal is strong over, Red 6 request sitrep, over.”

  Static.

  Mercy ignored the radio and opened her door to help Rose. She stepped down onto the footplate. A uniformed, helmeted trope appeared beneath her, crawling out from beneath the truck.

  Shit, they’re under us—

  Mercy reached for her SIG, the super trope rolled and sprang to its feet, its eyes locking onto Mercy from behind its visor.

  Mercy aimed her SIG and opened fire. The super trope threw itself at her, its arms outstretched. Three of Mercy’s rounds slammed into the trope’s chest armour, another round caught it in the neck. The killing round punched through the visor, entered the trope’s right eye and destroyed its brain. The trope’s right hand snatched dead air inches from Mercy’s face. It fell to the floor with a thud. Mercy looked up, Rose was working her way around to the passenger door.

  Christ Rose, you don’t know when to give up, do you girl?

  Mercy threw herself back into the truck, slamming her door. She leant across the cabin and pulled on the passenger door handle. The deadbolt clicked, the automated voice activated: “Manual override successful, deadbolts released.” Rose’s door flew open.

  Mercy climbed over the passenger seat and jumped down. “Rose you get in, I’m stronger than you, I’ll lift one cylinder at a time, you guide them in.”

  “Got it,” Rose said, she climbed up to her seat and turned, ready to take the first of the two cylinders.

  Mercy examined the oxy-acetylene trolley, the cylinders were strapped in.

  OK, so quick release, here goes—

  Mercy found the quick release buckle and pulled, the oxy-acetylene cylinder came free, she lifted it up to Rose. Rose’s head snapped up, her eyes widening. Mercy wheeled around and ducked, trope arms swiped the air where she had stood a moment before. The trope reacted and dropped to its knees lunging at Mercy. Mercy rolled, her feet tangling in the trolley straps, the trolley crashed to the ground. The trope woman crawled over the obstacle and grappled with Mercy, snapping at her neck.

  Mercy pushed the trope with her left arm, she found the hilt of her knife with her right hand. The trope’s grip tightened on Mercy; sharp needle-like pain pierced her throat, warm wetness trickled under her collar.

  Fuck—

  Adrenaline surged through Mercy, she brought her knife up in a savage upper cut. Her blade bit hard and deep passing through the trope’s jaw, it punctured the roof of its mouth and entered its brain. The trope went limp. Mercy jerked, throwing the body to one side, she rolled away and caught her breath. Scrabbling sounds came from under the truck.

  Move, MOVE—

  Mercy grabbed the oxygen cylinder and passed it to Rose. Rose manhandled it into the truck, Mercy climbed up, the welding goggles in her hand. She slammed the passenger door and flinched as two trope faces slammed up against the tinted windows, their lips splaying, revealing blackened teeth.

  Smart… smart fuckers, but we made it—

  The automated voice announced: “Security protocol notification: Doors deadlocked, repeat, doors deadlocked. Driver access code required to revoke command. Internal manual override available.”

  Mercy took a breath and closed her eyes.

  Chapter 20

  Wish

  Banging on the windows. A metallic smell. Mercy touched her neck. Slick wetness. Her eyes snapped open.

  Blood, I’m bit—

  Mercy jerked up, her whole body rigid. “Rose, keep away. I’m bit.”

  Rose appeared from the back of the truck, “I ain’t going nowhere. We’re in this together. Here, show me—”

  Rose shone her torch on Mercy’s neck, she dabbed at the wound with her sleeve. “Good news is you’re not bit. Bad news is your zipper tore the skin off your neck, it’s oozing some. There’s a first aid kit in the back, hang on—”

  Mercy rested her head against the seat, the banging persisted at the side window, more trope faces appeared, pressing on the reinforced glass.

  They’ve found a way in, they always do—

  Rose appeared with a field dressing, she placed it on Mercy’s neck and pushed the edges down. The radio burst into life; a male voice boomed through the cabin: “Bay Central to RT Red 6, maintain position, repeat… maintain position. Be advised, help inbound, bird on your position in twenty minutes. Prepare for extraction—”

  Rose slumped against the bench, “It just gets better and better don’t it?”

  Mercy rubbed her forehead, “We attract trouble like flies to shit.”

  Rose picked up her M16, “OK, so let’s start this thing and get the hell out of here.”

  Mercy touched the bandage at her neck, “You’re a slave driver Rose.”

  “No rest for the wicked,” Rose replied.

  “Yeah, trope bait all the way.”

  Mercy climbed into the driver’s seat. She started the engine and threw the truck into reverse. The truck juddered, its wheels crunching the fallen debris on the shop floor. The engine roared, filling the confined space with diesel fumes, the truck reversed through the collapsed building. They emerged into daylight, crushed trope bodies littered the ground. More tropes had gathered outside the store, attracted by the engine noise.

  “The love just keeps coming, get this thing back to the RV park. Maybe we can pull in close to the gate and jump over the fence,” Rose said.

  Mercy grunted and wrestled with the gears. The truck reversed in a wide arc knocking into a car. She changed gears and hit the accelerator. They lurched down the street towards the main road.

  Keep it together—

  Mercy swerved, avoiding an SUV and a pick-up. They mounted the kerb and slammed into a knot of tropes emerging from an office building. She swung back onto the road and reached the junction with the main thoroughfare. She grappled with the steering wheel, turning right.

  Rose glanced in the side mirror, “Christ, looks like we’ve got at least fifty of the fuckers on our tail. Make this thing go faster—”

  Mercy managed to shift up a gear, they clipped a school bus on the right. Trope bodies slid off the truck roof onto the road. They picked up speed. Rose pressed a switch on the dashboard, a mini-screen flickered to life.

  “Rooftop camera, looks like we’re free of tropes,” Rose said, her voice grim.

  Mercy pulled a face, her neck was throbbing.

  Focus, use the pain, get us there—

  She swerved around two cars and mounted the grass verge on the left.

  “Rose, get ready, we’re near the RV entrance, we’ve pulled ahead, get to the hatch,” Mercy steered towards the hedge beside the RV park entrance.

  The truck sped up the slope, smashed through the hedge and onto the RV entranceway. Mercy slammed the brakes on. Rose opened the hatch with a grunt and pulled herself out into daylight. Gunfire erupted at the gate as Cronin’s men laid down suppressive fire on the approaching tropes.

  Mercy cla
mbered into the back of the truck and carried the oxy-acetylene cylinder to the hatch. McShane stood above the opening, he reached down and took the cylinder. Mercy went back for the oxygen cylinder, she manhandled it to the hatch and watched as McShane lifted it out. There was no sign of Rose.

  Hope she’s OK—

  Mercy looked through the hatch, McShane reappeared, shooting his M16 from the hip.

  “Get the hell out of here,” he shouted, slamming the hatch down.

  The gun battle raged outside. McShane’s footsteps disappeared from the roof, she clambered into the driver’s seat and looked out the window into the RV park.

  They’ve made it over the gate—

  Rose stood on the other side of the gate with Cronin and his men. They were laying down a hail of fire on the tropes bursting through the hedge. Cronin waved at Mercy, he shouted something unintelligible. Then understanding surged through her.

  Tropes can climb up the truck and over the gate, drive away—

  Mercy crunched the gears and slammed her foot on the accelerator, the truck jerked away from the gate and crashed through the opposite hedge. She looked in her side mirror as the truck slewed down the grass slope onto a strip of wasteland on the other side. Tropes were spilling through the hedge behind, drawn by the truck’s movement and noise.

  Good, good, follow me—

  Mercy returned to the main road. She swerved around a knot of cars and slammed against a line of concrete Jersey barriers, sending a shower of sparks into the air.

  Jesus—

  She accelerated away from the barriers, the truck surged across the central reservation to the opposite carriageway and veered towards a row of trees. It mounted the kerb and slewed sideways into a corner building, smashing against steel and glass. The engine stalled and the internal lights went out.

  Get out, go, go—

  Mercy opened the driver’s door and jumped down. She looked over her shoulder, twenty yards away a large group of tropes ran towards her, their blood lust raging. She turned and bolted, aware of a dragging sensation in her right calf. She ducked in, close to the buildings and ran along the sidewalk. A rhythmic thumping sound swept overhead accompanied by a rush of air.