The remaining bodyguard swung around to see a young girl emerging from an open hatch in the side of the podium. A second 9mm round slammed into his chest stopping him in his tracks.
The Preacher looked up and saw the girl standing three feet away. She was pointing a pistol at his head, her eyes empty, her face slack. She looked about twelve or thirteen. He opened his mouth to speak then jerked back as four 9mm bullets smashed into his skull.
Rose kept squeezing the trigger, “That’s for Arabella, and Maggie and Bird and for all the others you’ve taken. Die you bastard, die.” She emptied the magazine into his body then dropped the Walther. Shouts and screams came from behind her but she ignored them, she kicked the Preacher’s corpse again and again. Rage consumed her, tears stung her eyes.
The 50 Cal opened up and was joined by intense automatic weapons fire.
“Fire in the hole— gas, gas, gas,” a man’s voice bellowed.
Rose stood and walked along the line of SUVs away from the noise, away from everything.
A loud explosion came from the other side of the Bowling Green, a sheet of flame tore through the air near the Humvee. The 50 Cal fell silent. Clouds of green gas filled Broadway swirling around the Charging Bull.
Rose kept moving, she reached the area beyond the foremost SUV and stopped. A girl was on the ground fighting one of the Preacher’s men, she was trying to wrestle a knife from him, blood oozed from a cut on her left arm.
Another explosion ripped through the air, flames enveloped the podium and the two rear SUVs, throwing one in the air. Glass fragments and bits of metal rained down around Rose, she picked up a glass shard. The man was on top of the girl, his knife at her throat. He jerked in surprise as Rose pulled his head back by the hair and cut his throat. She stared into his eyes as his life slipped away, she released the glass shard and pulled him off the girl.
The girl spluttered and coughed her hands going to her neck. She blinked and focused on her saviour, “Rose? Rose is that you?”
Rose stared down at the girl’s bloodstained face. Recognition flickered on her face, “Tawny?”
“Yeah, it’s me tiger, the one and only,” Tawny’s eyes flicked to the carnage unfolding around the Charging Bull sixty yards away. Green gas was rolling out from the area, men wearing gas masks were locked in hand to hand fighting with sluggish tropes and skinnies. Rusty’s work, Tawny thought. Good girl Rusty, those bastards are toast without the 50 Cal.
Tawny snapped her attention to Rose. “Come on kid, we need to bug out right now.” She took Rose’s hand and pulled her from the dead man over to the motorbike on the pavement. The keys were in the ignition.
Tawny got on the Harley Sportster, Rose climbed on behind her, everything was a blur. Rose held on tight focusing on the stars and stripes tattoo on Tawny’s forearm, she had always meant to ask Tawny about it. All tattoos had a story, Rose felt the outside world receding.
The Harley’s engine growled. Tawny let out a defiant shout and revved the throttle, they shot forwards down Broadway and into Whitehill Street.
Away from the hell that lay behind.
Chapter 21 Terror Street
Mercy watched through the shutter in disbelief as the masked girl was impaled on the Charging Bull. The girl’s screams echoed off the buildings, the hairs on Mercy’s neck stood up.
“Jesus Christ,” Flynn said beside her.
The bull was a hundred yards away and surrounded by a cordon of heavily armed men. The Humvee with the 50 Calibre machine gun sat to the left of the podium facing up Broadway.
“The bastard’s insane, this has to stop—” Mercy dropped to her knees and began to crawl under the door shutter.
“Wait, Mercy where are you going? There’s nothing you can do— you can’t charge all that firepower,” Flynn grabbed her by the shoulder preventing her from leaving.
“Let me go Flynn, that bastard can’t get away with this. Someone’s got to stop him,” Mercy replied.
In the distance the girl’s screams became more frantic. Flynn looked through the shutter seeing she had been pulled off the bull’s horn. Mercy was right, they had to do something, anything, this was an affront to humanity.
“I’m coming, wait for me,” Flynn said kneeling beside Mercy.
A single gunshot rang out across Broadway. Flynn looked at Mercy.
“That’ll be Laurient, has she taken out the Preacher?” Mercy asked.
They jumped to their feet and squinted through the shutter.
“I can’t see much, the podium’s empty,” Flynn said.
“The girl’s stopped screaming,” Mercy observed.
The 50 Cal opened up sending hundreds of rounds into the Broadway Atrium building above them. The narrowness of the street magnified the heavy machine gun’s sound. Shards of glass and lumps of concrete rained onto the pavement from above. Flynn grabbed Mercy and pulled her to the back of the doorway shielding her with his body.
After a prolonged ten second burst the 50 Cal fell silent, its echo fading up Broadway. The unmistakable sound of a second, then a third high velocity round pierced the air. The 50 Cal opened up again, larger pieces of glass and concrete peppered the street outside.
“Jesus— Laurient’s not going to survive that,” Mercy shouted above the noise.
Flynn shook his head in agreement. “We’re gonna have to wait it out— she’s stirred up a hornet’s nest.”
The heavy machine gun kept pounding the Broadway Atrium building for another twenty seconds before falling silent again. Flynn looked at Mercy, they were covered in dust from the street.
The silence after the machine gun was unnerving. Flynn turned and crawled to the shutter looking outside, Mercy joined him. Glass and bits of masonry still rained onto the street in front of them. A chunk of concrete hit the sidewalk and bounced at an angle hitting the shutter. They pulled away and waited for the debris to stop falling.
“They’ll want proof of death won’t they?” Mercy said.
“What do you mean?” Flynn replied.
“They’ll search the building looking for the shooter— Laurient,” Mercy answered.
“Yeah, I guess.”
“We’d better get to her before they do, she may be wounded and there’s Dakota too,” Mercy added.
“OK, let’s do it,” Flynn said.
They crawled towards the shutter again.
“I’ll go first this time,” Flynn declared and before Mercy could do anything he was half way out onto the street.
A man’s voice rang out on Flynn’s right. “Tropes incoming, put your gas masks on, fire at will, repeat fire at will.”
Flynn looked right to see the 50 Cal pointing up Broadway directly at him. The gunner and the men standing beside the Humvee were donning gas masks. Flynn turned to his left and froze. “Shit,” he muttered.
Scores of tropes were tearing down Broadway, bloodlust in their eyes. They collided with each other in their eagerness, some advanced clinging to the sides of buildings and street lights. Behind the tropes he could see skinnies staggering forwards, their wasted muscles not able to keep up with the furious pace of their infected brethren. Adrenaline surged through Flynn, he crawled back under the shutter ramming it shut. “Tropes,” he shouted.
Mercy understood, “Quick give me your belt.”
Flynn looked at her uncomprehending.
“Your belt,” she repeated, pointing at the shutter lock on the ground.
Flynn nodded and slipped off his belt just as the 50 Cal roared into life firing up Broadway. This time it was joined by the clatter of small arms fire from the rest of the Preacher’s men. A concentrated hail of bullets ripped into the first phalanx of tropes tearing their bodies into shreds.
More tropes pressed in from behind climbing over their fallen kindred. They too ran into a hail of bullets meeting the same fate. Mercy rammed the shutter down securing it to the ground with Flynn’s belt.
Gunfire raged, trope bodies piled up on the street, their faces contort
ed with hunger and bloodlust. More came in waves scrabbling over the fallen. A phalanx of skinnies appeared pressing forwards, catching up with the tropes.
A group of skinnies stopped in front of the doorway and turned to look at the shutter. Mercy stared into the nearest skinny’s dead eyes, its face twisted, it lurched towards the shutter its hands reaching for her. Its fingers grasped the shutter pushing and pulling. A second later the others joined in pounding on the shutter.
Mercy pulled back from the onslaught keeping her hand on the belt. Flynn raised his pistol in a desperate move.
“Don’t shoot,” Mercy shouted.
Two seconds later the skinnies were hit by a hail of 50 Calibre rounds, they vanished in an explosion of gore. The tide of tropes began to subside as they passed down the street towards the Charging Bull. The number of skinnies also began to dwindle as the guns took their toll.
“They smell the blood from the sacrifice,” Mercy said looking at Flynn.
“There’s fewer of them now, maybe we should make a break for it. What do you think?” Flynn asked.
A loud explosion came from the Bowling Green startling them. The 50 Calibre machine gun fell silent.
“Rocket launcher—” Mercy said.
Flynn nodded. “That’ll be Tawny… or Rusty, things are hotting up, time to go.”
Mercy raised her head in agreement, she released the belt handing it back to Flynn.
“Ready?” Mercy asked.
“Ready,” Flynn replied. He lifted the shutter.
Mercy crawled onto the sidewalk her feet slipping on trope blood. She crouched looking to her right, a thick green cloud hung over the Charging Bull and the Bowling Green obscuring her view. The cloud was rolling up Broadway towards them.
Mercy turned to Flynn, “Quick, get out of there, run.” She reached down and pulled him through the gap. “Gas— they’re using gas, run.”
Flynn scrambled to his feet and glanced at the gas, now fifty yards away. Scores of riddled bodies prevented them from running, they had to pick their way through the bloody remains.
Without warning Mercy’s ankle was wrenched, she fell and rolled managing to reach her Glock. A trope, half its body shot away, was holding her ankle pulling itself towards her, its teeth snapping at her flesh. Mercy aimed and shot point blank, its head snapped back, disintegrating. She rolled over and stood, slipping again on the blood soaked street. She looked up to see Flynn coming to help, her eyes focused on movement behind, a figure was closing in on him.
“Flynn, down,” Mercy shouted.
Flynn sensed the urgency in her voice and flung himself on the ground beside her.
Mercy brought the Glock up and aimed at the threat, a part of her brain hesitated, her hand drifted but her finger squeezed the trigger. The shot rang out missing the figure, instead hitting the Broadway Atrium building behind.
The gore soaked shape stopped in its tracks and spoke, “Mercy it’s me, Dakota. Don’t shoot, don’t shoot.”
Mercy let out a sigh, “Dakota, where’s Laurient?”
Dakota shook her head, “She didn’t make it, she’s up there somewhere.”
Mercy absorbed the words, staring into Dakota’s eyes. “Shit— OK, let’s get out of here,” Mercy ordered.
The gas cloud was fifteen yards away, the bodies were fewer now, allowing them to run. Out of the blue the roar of an engine came from behind, a dirt bike shot out of the green cloud its rider fighting for control. The rider wore a gas mask, a trope was on his back biting at his neck.
The bike lost traction skidding on the asphalt narrowly missing Dakota. The trope was thrown from the bike and slammed into a wall its spine shattering with the impact, the rider lay unmoving where he fell.
Mercy glanced back, the gas was almost on them. She went over to the rider, his head was at an odd angle, his neck broken, she took his gas mask and put it on. The bike looked undamaged, she waved Flynn over. Mercy sat on the bike and kick started the engine.
Mercy shouted, “Flynn take the bike and Dakota out of range of the gas— I’ll follow on foot.”
There was no time to argue. Flynn took the bike, Dakota jumped on behind him, her face unreadable behind the gore. Flynn revved the throttle and without looking back sped up Broadway.
Mercy watched them go, bitterness in her heart, they had sworn to avoid separation. The chlorine gas enveloped her, Mercy tightened the mask, she realised she was holding her breath, she let it out, hesitated and inhaled.
Nothing.
The mask was claustrophobic and smelt of rubber, her world shrunk to what she could see through its protective lenses. Her breathing settled, she was alive. Her world was a green swirling mist.
How much of this shit have they released? What were they thinking? Mercy thought.
The last thing she needed was a slip or an injury. She fought the urge to run and instead watched where she put her feet and made her way up Broadway following Flynn and Dakota. Her hand reached to her leg holster— it was empty. She had dropped the Glock when she had gone for the motorbike.
Mercy cursed then remembered the two Peacemakers in her pack. She retrieved the revolvers, they were fully loaded, six rounds apiece. At least she could defend herself, she felt like an old style gunslinger. If they were good enough for the Wild West they’re good enough for New York City, she mused.
Mercy kept to the centre of the road her senses alert.
One foot in front of the other, come on you can do it—
The gas showed no sign of clearing. Mercy turned, a breeze was forcing the green cloud north, up Broadway.
Stay calm, keep walking, it’ll end when it ends—
A low shadow loomed out of the haze on Mercy’s left, she stopped, squinting at the shape. She made out faded lettering: Wall Street Station. She had her bearings, Trinity Church was ahead on the left. She resisted the temptation to enter the church, there would be no sanctuary there.
Keep moving, move or die—
Another fifty steps and the gas cloud began to thin, another twenty five steps and it disappeared, her surroundings returned, buildings, road and sky.
Keep the mask on, don’t risk it—
Mercy kept walking, another hundred steps, two hundred. Sweat trickled down her forehead stinging her eyes. The smell of the mask’s rubber was oppressive. The lenses were partially obscured by condensation.
A shape moved ahead.
She brought the Peacemakers up.
“Hey don’t shoot, it’s me, Flynn.”
“Dakota here too,” Dakota added.
Mercy lowered the Peacemakers and took the mask off, her shoulders slumped. They were alive, she was alive.
Flynn rushed over giving her a hug. Dakota stood a few steps away keeping watch.
“You made it,” Mercy said.
“You made it,” Flynn repeated joy in his voice.
“For a moment there—” Mercy didn’t finish.
“Yeah, I know, me too—”
“Thanks to your quick thinking me and Dakota are still here,” Flynn grinned.
“And for once you didn’t argue, you’re learning,” Mercy smiled.
“Hey guys, I hate to break up the party, but where are we going?” Dakota asked. “Laurient’s dead, I guess that makes Tawny the boss now—”
Mercy looked at Flynn, understanding passed between them.
“Dakota you’ve seen it yourself back there, things have changed. Laurient’s dead, who knows what’s left of the Angels or even the Preacher’s followers?” Mercy paused to see if her words had made an impact.
Dakota remained silent staring at her.
Mercy continued. “Me and Flynn are getting out of here, off Manhattan, away from the city.”
Dakota blinked, “Over the north wall? But that’s impossible, the mines and the guns—”
“Not the wall Dakota, Flynn’s brother has a boat, we’re going west across the river to Jersey.” Mercy looked at Flynn who nodded. “We’d like you to come with us.”<
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Dakota looked at Mercy, then at her feet, she rubbed her face and looked up. Mercy saw she was crying, she went over to Dakota and held her. Dakota was trembling. Mercy noticed the glove and duct tape binding Dakota’s hand. “We’ll have a look at that hand of yours when we get to the boat.”
Finally, Dakota lifted her head and whispered to Mercy, “I want to leave the city too, things here are— over.”
“Then it’s settled,” Mercy replied. “You’re coming with us.
Flynn went over to the bike and started the engine. “Hop on everyone.”
“You’re joking,” Mercy said.
“No, it’s good, I swear. We can get three on here, Dakota behind me and you up front, side saddle on the tank. It won’t be comfortable, we can only go slow but it’ll be a lot quicker than walking.”
Mercy pulled a face. “OK biker dude, let’s give it a go.”
“I’ll take the next left, we can join West Street and make good time to Pier 59,” Flynn said.
They headed up Broadway turning left onto Thames Street then on to Greenwich Street and the Liberty Street Walkway. Fifteen minutes later they emerged onto the West Street and began picking their way through abandoned cars and trucks. Many of the car doors were open and Mercy and Dakota had to get off the bike to close them.
“I haven’t seen a single skinny since we left Broadway,” Dakota said.
“Yeah, it’s weird— keep your eyes open, I don’t like it. It’s too quiet,” Mercy replied.
They passed the worst of the gridlock Flynn weaving the motorbike in and around the vehicles. After fifteen minutes they came to an old army barrier at the World Trade Centre; concrete blocks and barbed wire lay across the road. They could see West Street was clear beyond the barrier.
“Go to the left, looks as if there’s some blast damage to the barrier,” Mercy pointed.
Flynn saw the breach in the concrete and steered the bike through the gap. The road was scorched around the opening and the tarmac had melted in pockets.
“Some serious ordnance was used here,” Flynn said trying not to topple the bike into a giant crater.
The Survival Chronicles (Book 1}: Mercy Kill Page 21