Dark Water: The Chronicles of Mercy

by G. P. Moss

  We’re all safely across. Looking back there’s nothing following us. Buildings lie ahead of us, half a mile or so I’m guessing. I squint to look again at the sky in the distance. I’m sure I just saw a black shape in the sky. I tell the others, calmly, but they already noticed it. We aren’t walking this way just to travel north. If that was the case we could follow the coast, find caves for shelter and perhaps some useful things along the way.

  We know we’re heading for trouble. For confrontation. Nobody knows the numbers of Subs and Hounds out there. One of our missions is to engage and destroy.

  As the distance between us and the buildings narrows, it becomes clear they’re part of a farm. A large, stone-built house stands to the left of an unpaved yard. There are several vehicles, burned out, rusted, or both. A tractor sits with melted foam and plastic stuck in mid-fall down the back of a charred chassis. The black bird hovers over us, swoops then circles the farmhouse. Surprised by a thin column of smoke from a chimney, we stop to consider whether to carry on our approach or skirt the building with plenty of room to react to trouble.

  The house is damaged though it doesn’t look uninhabitable, by the look of the roof and outer walls. It’s unlikely but there could be humans inside. We need their contact too. Feeling my breathing quicken, I concentrate on slowing my heart rate by focussing more clearly on the house itself.

  The front faces fields to the left while the back looks on to the yard. Where we are, we’re looking at the side. Empty wooden window frames, long devoid of paint, are not a good sign. Humans would have boarded up at least, or put up polythene to allow in light. Maybe there was no board, no plastics. Rifles are folded down, put in our sacks. Each of us carries a handgun with a new clip. We go around the house to the left. To the front.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  The paint-stripped front door is closed. The black bird circles overhead. I touch Dad’s tags. The window frames on each side at the front are empty too. I try to slow the breathing but it’s getting worse - faster. The door is intact. Anne leans back to the hinged side while Holly and I cover a window each. Alex stands five feet from the door while Sister Evie quickly checks the back and to the sides.

  With her left arm, Sister Evie reaches in for the dull, gold-coloured, metal door knob, quickly turning it to the left. Nothing. It appears to be locked. Or blocked. A loud squawk from the bird overhead shatters the tension-filled silence. I see there are two choices. Either we go around to the back or the door is kicked in. The latter will be quicker and more decisive but we can’t just go in firing in case of humans.

  We stand aside as Sister Evie retreats before striding forward, splitting the wood with a loud crack as she smashes the door open with one swift kick. I can smell them as the Sister is grabbed as she prepares to shoot. Alex jumps in, firing as he loses balance but dropping a Sub to his left. A screaming rage dominates the enclosed space as he’s jumped on by two of them. He’s in agony and trapped.

  Holly shoots one in the head and another running down the rickety stairs but the remaining Sub is close to the front of Alex’s exposed neck. I shoot to the body but the Sub starts to bang Alex’s head on the stone floor. Alex manages to roll so the Sub’s head is away from his body. Automatically, I raise my sword, swinging it into the beast’s neck. It falls to the ground, soaking the living room floor with its blood. It’s like it happened subconsciously. One minute I’m firing the Glock, the next it’s in my pocket as the blade lifts quickly and smoothly from its scabbard. Alex rubs his neck, looking at me in shock.

  “I’m glad you can control that thing.”

  “It’s Dad’s. It was never going to hurt you.”

  Rags walks in. This time, I’m grateful he decided to wait outside.

  The house is now silent. I step carefully back outside to see the black bird flap its wings and with a final squawk of disgust, or satisfaction, fly away. Before we decide what to do with the bodies, we need to check the rest of the buildings. Blood runs from the back of Alex’s head. Anne staunches the flow, then checking it, says it’s largely superficial.

  “It doesn’t feel like it,” he says.

  Anne steps back, her hands on her hips.

  “Stop your whingeing, we need to get back to work.” She’s grinning as she retrieves her sack.

  The back door is not just unlocked but open. Anne steps out carefully as we cover while Sister Evie brings up the rear, constantly checking our back and sides. We don’t relax while we search. The Subs surprised us with their behaviour. Usually they would sense us coming, launching an attack before any other thought occurred to them. That’s if they can think, in any rational way. They need to eat so they must have at least some cognitive function.

  A large barn with huge, wooden double doors stands to the north-east of the farmhouse, around fifty yards away. The wood is mottled brown and grey where weatherproof coating has either burned or been worn away by the elements. A bit of both probably. The right-hand door is open by two feet.

  There are bodies in here, over in a corner - four large and two small. Adults and children. They’re just skeletons now but it’s clear they met violent deaths at the hands of the Subs. All of them have large skull fractures. I pray it was quick. The farmer, his wife, sons, or labourers, and their two kids, I’m guessing. Sister Evie comes in from the yard, seeing the skeletons. She stops, turning to me.

  “We have to bury them, properly. Six individual graves, one plot. It’s only right,” she says.

  We search outhouses until we find spades. There’s a meadow to the rear of the barn. It looks peaceful. I hope they can rest in peace.

  Anne says a prayer for the farmer and his family as we bow our heads in respect. The rest of the farm is clear, of humans and Subs alike. Holly finds more rope in a shed. It’s clean and strong and not too thick - a useful addition to our gear. There’s plenty of dry wood here in the barn and other buildings. Old tyres too, always a great, long burning addition to the fires we’ll set around the house.

  We all need rest and this is the only way we’re likely to get any. We work quickly to set out a fire boundary twenty feet from the walls of the house. With the boundary now alight, we drag out the Subs, adding them to the flames. As Holly and I carry the one felled with my sword, the head rolls, stopping us in our tracks in surprise. It’s a middle-aged woman, features twisted and gnarled, exaggerated in death. I think it’s the first female Sub I’ve come across. Maybe there were others that I just didn’t notice in the dark, the rain, my fear. Anyway, male or female, it doesn’t matter. It tried to kill my dad’s friend so there would only be one outcome. We drag it outside, throwing it onto the fire with a flourish and brushing the stink and dirt from our hands. The house cleared at last, we return to explore the rest of the building.

  The timber staircase wobbles in places but otherwise it’s climbable. Upstairs are four large bedrooms with a central bathroom. The ceramic bath is smashed, as is a pedestal basin, but a flush toilet is mainly intact. It’s full of stagnant water. Or something. I try the metal handle. It doesn’t work. I’ve seen smashed up ones before – none of them ever worked. The bedrooms are empty of furniture, probably burnt in the woodstove a long time ago. There is nothing at the windows here either.

  Rags sniffs around but quickly loses interest in the empty rooms. Downstairs, I see Sister Evie pulling up a cellar hatch she’s found under an old, raggedy rug. Strapping the headlamp on, she descends the stone steps carefully, reaching the dusty bottom in a few seconds. She calls us down to look at a pile of heavy boxes stacked against a side wall. We open them, finding tinned and packet foodstuffs as well as jerk. Some of it’s dated, some not.

  I learnt a long time ago that if I’m lucky enough to find food like this, to ignore the dates, which can be ‘use by’ a couple of years after my birth. The way to go is, try a little first. If it smells or tastes bad, discard it. If not, eat it. A large blanket box in another corner holds packs of folded plastic including bags. It’s an exciting find and c
ould help sustain us for some time to come.

  There’s not much furniture downstairs either. Drawers that may hold clues to who the owners were will have been destroyed and burned long ago. In the kitchen, a few, heavy copper-bottomed pans, dented badly like they’ve been thrown in a rage, are scattered around. I attach plastic to the windows, using a large hammer, along with nails we found in one of the buildings. After the first attempt, I’m more careful as the wooden frame starts to crumble away. It’s early evening and we’ve explored all we can here. It’s time to get some sleep – we’ve had an exhausting day. We decide it’s safer to rest upstairs.

  *

  The warmth from the wood fire downstairs makes me drowsy. I dream of a different life. The small house is there again, this time near to the sea. I sit on the porch, surrounded by painted blue wooden rails, sipping tea from a delicate, flower-patterned china cup. My husband comes out through a swing screen door to join me. I don’t see his face. He’s taller than me, by at least half a foot and his shoulders are wide. Thick elastic held with silver metal clips seem to hold up heavy wool beige trousers. We both wear boots but they’re different, slimmer than the military ones I usually wear. A young child plays on a neat front lawn, bordered by pink and violet flowers. The child is a girl, with pale skin and dark, shoulder length hair. She has a plain face but I think she’s pretty. She’s our daughter. The azure blue sea is visible a few hundred yards away – its peaceful, white crested waves soothe as they land gently onto the shore. I’m happy.

  I wake as I hear the front door open. The smaller Glock is quickly in my hand as I peer down the stairs. It’s Sister Evie.

  “Sorry,” she whispers. “I was checking outside, making sure the fires are high enough. The door won’t open properly anymore.”

  I’m not surprised. I lie back down. Nobody else even woke up. I want my dream back.

  *

  We pack as much food as we can comfortably carry. Setting off at first light, a harsh, chill wind cuts through our clothes. It’s making me shiver but a fast pace should warm us all up. I see Alex wincing as his arm makes an involuntary swing once we’ve upped the pace. He won’t complain.

  We’re still heading on a diagonal. Alex says he knows the direction but I check anyway. Compass, sun, compass. We go north-west, walking higher but not too far across. Okay so he’s right. Doesn’t hurt to double check. Rags sometimes runs off, coming back an hour or so later. I’ve no idea what he does. He knows the dangers but he also survived long enough without me before.

  As we encounter smaller streams, we don’t pass an opportunity to heal and to refresh. The more water we can cleanse, the greater the flow to other parts of the land. Even though I still feel some sickness towards the end of the healing, there’s a completely new energy. I feel the power of the two Sisters and I gain confidence and gratitude from their knowledge and experience.

  Mum mentioned the frequencies before but all I understood at the time was to focus on being thankful and as calm as possible. It was quite easy for me - growing up as a child as I was calm pretty much most of the time. Mum tried to make the abnormal normal for me. It wasn’t too difficult – I never knew any different. Now I understand frequencies and their crucial part in the healing. Without them there’d be no transference of the power required to heal. The positive, kind energy given off is absorbed by the water, changing its state. It’s why the ‘switching’ that Sister Maria talked about is essential for an effective and thorough cleanse.

  As I travelled from the valley, healing as I went, there was still much of the adrenalin, fear and anger running through my body. While I managed some success, it would never be on the same level as what is happening now. The only way I could have managed it without the knowledge to ‘switch’ would be to live a life of absolute calm. That would mean no Subs, no Hounds. Ever. What a great place that would be. I correct myself. Will be.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  We walk over dry, open fields that long ago would have been fertile with crops. Where we find water nearby, we heal so it also irrigates the land. Although rainwater has much improved since the airborne particles finally began to dissipate, it’s still not enough to counter the dark water. It may dilute it somewhat but the principal poisons appear to survive.

  Farm buildings we pass are mainly burned or wrecked, by hands or weather - perhaps by both by the look at some of the damage. We don’t encounter any Subs while passing these places. While I’m grateful for a rest from those hateful creatures, I also hope this doesn’t mean they’re concentrated in larger numbers further along. Though we still mainly walk in single file, I notice that Alex and Anne are often closer, talking to each other.

  Rags has returned. He’s been away longer this time and appears a little agitated. Pushing on through the second part of the day, the sky loses some of its pale blue colour and begins to darken. We’re out in the open, miles from anywhere. If nasty weather is coming, I hope it can wait for us to find shelter. After crossing a cracked and broken road, littered with burned cars of various sizes, I spot a dark mass in the distance. I’m sure there’s woodland ahead.

  To the right of us, about five hundred yards, is what looks like an old petrol station. A smashed plastic sign sits uncomfortably at the top of a pole of twisted metal, its base hanging on by an iron rod. It’s worth checking out. Any kind of shelter will be welcome if this darkening sky decides to unload its wet and windy cargo on top of us.

  As I feel the first light spots of rain on my face, a familiar squawk makes me look skyward. I wonder if this black bird is the same one that seems to follow trouble. The same one that loves the prospect of a bloody show. I haven’t considered it may be friendly. That its presence offers us a warning. I dismiss that thought. I’m sure it didn’t appear until after the skirmish at Eastsea began. Realising the term that came to mind, I change it for what it really was. A battle. One in which Storm was killed. As far as we’re concerned, Storm will be remembered for defending the coastal town. Nobody needs to know it was one of their own residents that murdered her. Focus, Mercy.

  The others have noticed the bird too. We approach the old garage with caution, fingers placed on triggers. We halt as a crashing sound fills the air with a horrible din. Subs are running towards us, some holding huge wrenches that should be too heavy to carry like that. Swinging them through the air, they come in a horde as we fire round after round into them. Some don’t stay down straight away and need a second or third shot.

  One’s too close to Alex. As his good arm gives way under the weight of the rifle, A Sub swings the giant spanner at his face, knocking him over. The Sub’s arms take the tool up into the air, staggering back as Anne’s bullet takes him square in the forehead. It’s over quickly. I’m so out of breath everything feels twice as heavy. Alex is back on his feet. A blow from that would have finished him off, for sure. He knows it and shakes his head.

  “First the crossbow, now this,” he says.

  “Only the Glock for you from now on,” Anne says, picking up his rifle and folding it down.

  The black bird has gone.

  We dodge around the bodies as the rain starts to come down hard, rinsing the blood as it flows towards a cracked drain, its cover blown off and lying broken in half nearby. It’s one long building, with a small showroom to the left and on the right, an office and shop. Upended petrol and diesel pumps share the ground with the Subs. We’re careful as we walk around the damaged underground storage tanks. A strong smell of fuel lingers all around. I don’t know how flammable it is as the elements will have watered it down over the years. Still, I don’t think we’ll be lighting a boundary fire here.

  There’s no door to the entrance of the shop so if we choose to rest here, we’ll have to block up the entrance if there’s anything left. Towards a broken plywood counter is a drinks machine still standing in a corner. The front’s been smashed and all drinks taken but if the back’s intact it’ll do for a door block. I manage to move it, dislodging slime and
grime but the back’s not damaged. With Holly’s help I push it into place. Anne’s already in the showroom part of the building. There was a connecting door. It’s still there but off its hinges with a large hole kicked in the middle. Sub rage. They don’t open doors.

  It’s hard to see through the grimy windows but now a strange sight greets us. A smashed-up car sits in the middle of the showroom. Rubbing off dirt and dust, I can clearly see the pale blue paintwork underneath. It’s been hit and bashed with something, or more likely many things to the extent that crucial parts look twisted and bent. Its four tyres are slashed, along with a fabric roof which still hangs on by a loose metallic strip. Behind it, on the floor, is a cracked wooden photo frame with a picture of the car in better days. It looks amazing. White ribbon is attached to the front and goes back in a ‘V’ shape to the windscreen. Sister Evie sees me looking at it for a long time.

  “For a wedding. You could hire it for the day.”

  I imagine myself at a wedding. My wedding. Mum described hers and Dad’s, and some others too. I wonder if I would have met someone, in different circumstances. If the mess hadn’t happened.

  A heavy storm blows in, bouncing off the forecourt and Subs alike. If we wanted to burn them, we’re out of luck. I’m grateful for the shelter. The showroom windows are intact. Alex says they’re sliding doors but the glass must be a mix of something. Whatever it is, it’s heavily reinforced. Same with the shop and office. I’ve never seen whole windows this large before. This rain would have soaked us, never mind ponchos or anything else. We need to decide. If the weather lifts, we could carry on, though there’s no guarantee we’ll find decent shelter before nightfall.

  We decide. We’re staying here. We can’t make a fire defence so we’ll have to trust the glass will keep anything out. The drinks machine can be breached but we’ll hear it. And we’re armed. Heavily. I know Sister Evie though. She won’t stand for complacency. I’m right. We’ll take two-hour watches, in twos.