Dark Water: The Chronicles of Mercy

by G. P. Moss

  Anne holds up her hand as she slows, signalling for us to stop. Alex is telling her something. We’ll come to what looks like a dead end in another hundred yards or so. It’s not. It’s loosely blocked with rocks but blends in to look like an unfinished tunnel.

  We remove the rocks carefully, one by one. The need to make sure there’s nothing unpleasant on the other side sharpens our focus. After a gap of two square feet has been created, the air quality changes markedly. A faint, fresh breeze awakens my skin so I know we’ve moved in a north-easterly direction since the house. We’re closer to the sea. Sister Evie stands guard with a Glock while we place each stone by the side. Once we climb through, they’ll have to come with us so the wall can be rebuilt.

  Although it’s an entrance, the gap hasn’t been dug to the bottom. Alex needs to climb through as well. Before anyone goes, I use my sword to swing left and right, making sure no hand is there ready to grab. If my arm’s grabbed, a nine-millimetre bullet will find its way quickly to the offender, courtesy of Anne. So far, it’s fine. The blade cuts through air, stopping before it cracks the stone wall.

  We leave the first tunnel as quickly as we can. Alex swings each of his legs easily over the ledge and through to the other side. I can tell there’s pain in his upper body as grim determination dominates his face. Holly and I lift the trolley through to Anne so Alex can resume his horizontal position. The greater the rest now, the quicker the recovery. He doesn’t protest out of any sense of embarrassment, knowing it’s the right thing to do.

  Rags pokes his head through, looks left and right then hops nimbly through the hole. With one last look around her, Sister Evie completes the team’s move. We set to work immediately, replacing the rocks to get a tight fit.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  I’ve been here before, with Storm and Rags - we walked right past it. I think of how much different things could have turned out if we’d known about the tunnel heading under the town and leading to Anne’s. How we wouldn’t have met David. How Storm could still be alive. It’s nonsense. Look to the future not the past. Ifs, buts, whys. No point. Focus, Mercy. We’re heading inland. I’m expecting to walk until we reach the ladder we came down.

  Anne keeps stopping, to check on Alex. He looks unwell. Raising his head a little, he urges her to carry on, until we almost pass the ladder that we saw on our first trip. It’s this one he wants, not the one further along. A thought occurs to me. We’ll have to carry him up, or at least help him. Sister Evie comes from behind to climb the iron rungs. As she reaches the top, her hand pushes against the boarding. It doesn’t move. At all.

  She returns to the ground, searching in her bag for the chisel. Instead of pushing up, it needs to be levered down. Two screws wrenched out allows the square-cut wood to be turned until it pops right out. She catches it before it falls to us, passing it down carefully.

  Alex is quiet. Too quiet. We need to get him somewhere to look at the wound properly, or do it here. I look up to see Sister Evie bending down to her left as she positions her right shoulder to push on the now exposed hatch. It’s not moving. She tries again. Even from down here, I hear the exertion in her breathing as she pushes with all her strength. Nothing. Alex briefly looks up. In a weak voice, he tells her she’s pushing against the hinges – to try the other side. She does. It starts to lift almost straight away.

  Sister Evie continues to use her shoulder so that the hatch opens wider. It tilts over and crashes to the floor. She stays still for a few seconds while wood and stone dust settles and to ensure nothing comes to attack. As she lifts herself through the gap, I ask Alex how he wants to proceed. He barely has the strength to raise the top half of his body.

  I place my hand lower on his back to support him as he grabs hold of the ladder rail with his uninjured arm. Twisting and lifting he slowly pulls himself upright. I can’t hold him so I act as a human buffer to shore him up as he climbs. Twice, his head lolls to the side and I worry he’ll let go, toppling backwards, and taking me with him. Thankfully, it doesn’t happen. As he reaches the top, Anne pulls as I push. It’s not ideal, causing Alex more agony but eventually he’s through and out.

  As I lift myself out, I turn to see Holly helping Rags up the ladder, making sure he doesn’t slip between the rungs. Once they’re up, I return to help Sister Evie haul the trolley up. We’re all up above ground. It’s a similar long hut to the one we entered over a week before. I take out the wind-up torch so Anne can save power on the headlamp. There are spare cell batteries in her sack but we don’t know how long they’ll last.

  Looking around, I can see plenty of carpet pieces but not much else. There’s a large plastic bag against the side of the far wall. I turn to ask Alex if it’s his from a previous visit but there’s no response. As Anne removes his jacket, it looks like he’s unconscious. Please, I pray. Not him as well. I change my prayer quickly, from negative to positive. Let him live, I implore. I’m specific, like I was taught.

  His body’s breaking out in fever. Poison sweats out of him while Anne works on the wound. As she cleans, she prays. Intones. Strange words leave her lips. I pray it’s not too late. If the poison enters his bloodstream there may be no hope. I change my thoughts. Any negativity in this small place will do more harm. I imagine him better, wound free, walking strong, unchallenged in his usual role of provider and protector. I’m grateful he’s Dad’s friend. Not was. It’s not just wishing the outcome for Alex, I realise. I’m also wishing for Dad to be alive.

  Anne bathes his head with a clean cloth, damp with the water from Sister Maria. The fever burns into the night. We’ll need to try to get the door open at some point. If it won’t budge, we’ll have to go back. Not back to the town but out at the beach entrance. The hatch must be opened every now and again as the air in the shed becomes thin and foul with the smell of bodies and sickness. Anne urges us to sleep.

  *

  I lay on carpet pieces and sleep fitfully. Dreams of death and familiar faces I’ve never seen in life come and go until I daren’t sleep anymore. Anne has succumbed to exhaustion and dozes near Alex’s good shoulder. Either she had no choice as her brain demanded rest or she left him in the hands of a higher power. I don’t realise how long we’ve been here until pinpricks of light force their way through tiny gaps in the thick steel door. I go over to Alex, see if I can freshen his face. To my surprise, there’s no sweat. The fever has burnt itself out. Or he’s dead. I’m sure his chest rises and falls but in the low light it’s hard to tell. I lower my head, pressing my ear close.

  “Mercy, what are you doing?” he says, softly but firm enough to hear.

  I jump up in fright. I was hoping to hear his heart, not his voice.

  “I thought you’d died,” I say quietly.

  He grins, before replying.

  “Well, thanks for checking but I seem to be okay.” He moves his arm, regretting it instantly as the pain reminds him he has an injury.

  Anne wakes and smiles with obvious relief.

  “She stayed with you for hours,” I say. “We thought you were a goner.”

  “Thank you,” he says softly, looking at Anne. She turns away, trying to hide the flush in her face.

  Across the front of the door is a long steel bar, the same as in the other shed. I remember the effort it took to open and close the last one but the point is, we did manage it. With Holly’s help, I remove the bar. Alex has managed to put on his sack using one shoulder with chest and waist fastenings. A Glock sits in his hand, ready. Anne and Sister Evie hold rifles as Holly and I push backwards on the door. It won’t move. The older girl looks at me for guidance.

  “Deep breath,” I say, “all the way in. Then push - slowly exhale while using buttocks and leg strength.”

  Scraping at first, it moves a few inches. We listen and watch. No snarling. No rancid breath or dripping teeth. Not yet anyway. We push some more until there’s a decent gap of two feet. We jump back in. Anne wants to go first, followed by Sister Evie. A hand beckons us, tell
s us it’s all clear.

  The fresh air hits us with its vitality - it’s cleaner, nearer to the sea, a benefit that was lost on us much of the time as storms caused chaos during our time in Eastsea. I check there’s something to tie a rope to before I push the door back into place. Rags has his nose in the air but doesn’t give anything away.

  We leave the trolley in the shed, as Alex can walk now. Apart from a brisk breeze coming from the sea, there’s little sound. To the left is dense woodland – huge, colour-rich trees, solid like a massed wooden army. Alex says he had so much trouble here in the past that he never ventured much further inland. He’d followed the coast further up, hoping to find signs of shipping or human life but headed back when there was just miles of empty beach, rock and sea and dangers without obvious reward.

  It’s different this time – we’re here for other reasons. There’s no definite route but we need to take the risk of inland exploration and healing. That also means trouble - unquantifiable surprises waiting to thwart us. So be it. We came to heal, fight and maybe organise. As we head towards the woods, Anne removes a stun grenade from her sack. I catch Alex grinning at her. There’s exploration and pushing boundaries - I pray that recklessness doesn’t play a part. Then I remember who they are.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  A large black bird circles overhead. Approaching the woodland edge, we walk one behind the other, a few feet apart. The perimeter line on our side runs for around half a mile. Halfway along, we stop, moving back around twenty yards. Sister Evie maintains her surveillance of the area behind us.

  Anne runs a good ten yards in, pulls the pin and throws in a stun grenade as far as her arm strength allows. There’s silence then a massive flash and huge bang as it hits the ground. Wide grey clouds of small birds launch to the sky in squawking terror. I hear the fast, heavy pounding of feet, even before we see them. Furious Hellhounds beat an evil path of deadly intent towards us. I can’t count them as we start to shoot, picking them off as they emerge from the dense trees.

  We hold our line of fire as instructed by Alex. He’s using Storm’s Ghost, cradled in his good arm. The only time I break my own line is to cover him. He’s not quick enough for all of them. I count at least twenty dead in front of us. Only one almost reached the line, near Alex. I dropped it with a single shot.

  It’s quiet now but it’s a risk to reload. Where a minute ago, a vast, tightly grouped row of trees stood, they’re now joined by half a dozen large, snarling Hounds. They stand, staring, deep-red eyes ablaze with undisguised fury. Then I see what they’re looking at. Rags. As stinking saliva drips from their huge, stained, ivory-coloured fangs, they begin to paw the bark-strewn earth in readiness to attack and kill. They seem oblivious to the five of us, armed and ready.

  An unexpected sudden movement by Rags surprises me, especially when I realise what he’s doing. Darting forward five yards before turning and running off on a diagonal to the side of us, he draws them all out. Chasing as a pack their natural hunting instinct makes them a block target. We take them down in four quick volleys of shots from the rifles. We look back to the wood’s edge to confirm there are no more. Rags walks slowly back, circling the Hounds, sniffing with disdain as he goes. He looks like a canine commander inspecting the deadly work of his troops.

  I retrieve the bolts from three Hounds, handing them back to Alex. We agree that Ghost was not the best choice for a one-armed man, especially when it comes to reloading. I’m only half-wondering if that fever sent some poison to his brain.

  “Schoolboy error,” he says, grinning.

  Whatever his choice of weapon, it’s great to see the flash of humour return. I look at Rags. Once again, he’s not only proved himself to be a loyal companion but an intelligent one too. His bravery at drawing out the Hounds truly astonishes me. I’m grateful. I truly am. Holly stood her ground. Even though I’m the younger one, I’m proud of her. Of where she was, just a few days ago, to where she’s at now. It’s like an awakening, revitalising a dormant soul.

  We need to move. Anne thinks that was it for the Hounds from these woods. She says the explosion would have reverberated throughout the whole place, scattering birds from their protective nests. They come on instinct. The smell of humans, and worse, of another dog, drives them into a killing state. They won’t plan or bide their time in what they consider their own territory. With Rags, there’s another dimension to their malevolence. In their pack status, they’ll view him as the ultimate traitor. I’m sure he feels the same way about them.

  It’s unlikely there’ll be Subs in here. It can’t be entirely ruled out but they don’t mix well with the Hounds. The dogs will always win, despite the uncontrolled destructive streak in the humans who once were. It’s difficult to even associate these creatures with normal men and women. They were once though. Families, jobs, books, music. Normal stuff. Until the dark water and airborne disease turned them. I shudder. Focus, Mercy.

  We don’t pile the bodies this time. I pour a little fuel from a bottle onto the Hounds. As soon as they’re alight we move on, maintaining a thirty-yard distance from the edge. Sister Evie stays at the rear, constantly checking behind while the rest of us keep a sharp eye on the trees. The slightest rustle of leaves, a snapped branch or a bird taking flight, has me stroking the rifle trigger.

  Approaching the end of the wood, we decide to turn left on a diagonal. We don’t want to burn woodland unless it’s necessary - hopefully it was the whole company of Hounds that greeted us. As we head north-west, the ground becomes drier for the first time - the dust rising as our feet trample on.

  Alex looks better as he keeps up easily with the rest of us. Anne leads the way but she confers with him regularly on direction. To the right of me the sea starts to become hazier as we move further away. Anne says she knows about the town I thought I’d seen on my way to Eastsea and the large fires that signified a human presence.

  Broken wells can be seen at the other side of the wood. Overturned, with debris scattered over a large area, they look like giant soldiers, surprised and slain by the unforgiving slap from mother nature. We’ll need to find water and shelter before the day is out but there are still several hours on our side. In the distance, I spot some buildings. Just a few, not large enough to be a village, we head in their direction. It’s hard to be precise but they could be a good couple of hours walk from here. We press on.

  To the right, we see a river’s outline as it bends its way around in front of us. We reach it as the sun is at our backs. It’s still cold but the winds and rain are thankfully absent. The river reveals itself to be too wide and the depth uncertain to wade across safely, especially for Alex with reduced balance. We’ve little choice but to follow it to the right until we find a bearable crossing point - hopefully before we lose too much ground doubling back.

  I know we can’t cover the whole country. If we can find human groups willing to expand beyond their fiery fortifications, then we can just concentrate on central areas like the valley. There’ll be support from Storm’s north-east homeland, I’m sure - they sent her to help after all. I make a promise to myself that I will find her mother. Of all the difficult tasks to be undertaken, it’s the one I dread the most. I desperately want her to feel proud, to know her daughter died an honourable, heroic death. It’s my duty. Storm would expect nothing less.

  Further along, a collapsed stone bridge lies half-submerged in the water. Before attempting a crossing, we find a place to stop - an opportunity to heal. The water looks relatively clean. It’s not dark but it can be hiding poisons all the same. Holly and Alex remove their sacks to briefly rest while I join the Sisters at the water’s edge. Spaced a few feet apart, our right arms slide gently but purposefully into the unknown waters. I pray. Intone. I can hear the intonations of Sisters Evie and Anne but they sound distant as I focus on my task. A slight wave of sickness tells me it’s time to stop. The two enlightened women continue for several more minutes before calmly withdrawing their arms, thanking the liq
uid life as they retreat.

  As we approach the water again, fine, gentle waves of ripples circle in and out, overlapping and separating as the healing takes its course. In both directions, the smooth momentum of light, bright liquid flows as sunlight dances on the surface. I look to Sister Evie. She nods as I kneel back down on the grassy bank, cupping my hands to collect a sample. As I bring the water close to my face, I can smell the neutral purity. I taste it, refreshing my mouth as I swill it around. It’s good. I swallow, my throat feeling soothed and cleansed.

  I fill my flask with a happy heart. Knowing that healing can be this effective takes away some of the darkness that’s clouded me since the death of my friend. Total absorption in the task, a meditative state of thankfulness and kindness as the quest for healing overrules any other wish, works at a level I never thought possible anywhere outside of the valley.

  I thought it was only Mum who could give so much, so perfectly. She too was a warrior, albeit one who hid the excesses of human necessity from me. I thought I could do a little, make a difference here and there. Now I know it’s possible to create a future, however slowly. I resolve to watch and learn. To practice. To heal. I watch Rags as he takes a long drink from the river.

  It’s time to cross the bridge - what’s left of it. The stone looks old, probably crumbling as the earth shook, dislodging many years of solid service. Asphalt road-covering sticks out at odd angles where large pieces refused to separate entirely. These will be our best course. Anne hooks her left arm through Alex’s as they start to cross.

  I watch as at midpoint he slips, falling half in the water as Anne concentrates on her own grip and holding on to him. I watch anxiously, a Glock trained on the water around him just in case. It’s unnecessary as he finds a foothold and clambers back onto the fallen road.