Dark Water: The Chronicles of Mercy

by G. P. Moss

  “There are five of us,” I say, unhelpfully.

  “No,” she replies, smiling. “Rags makes six.”

  I nod. He’s part of the team after all.

  I manage to grab some sleep though it’s early. It’s a bizarre luxury looking through windows as the rain hammers down, sweeping, cutting with the wind like a scythe. I don’t know if the noises I sometimes hear are imagined or not. Was it a howl? Was it the wind or are there more creatures out there waiting to take us down with their razor teeth? I push these thoughts out, once again up and away on an unseen cloud, replacing them with thoughts of a peaceful future.

  I can’t seem to get the image of the sea from my head. Looking out to it, feeling the breeze. Listening to a soft lullaby of gentle waves. I’ll keep these images. They make me happy.

  Rags is a bit different today. For the last several hours at least. It’s unlike him – usually there’s not a single peep out of him. It’s not exactly a whine I’m hearing occasionally but a little cry. Perhaps he’s feeling unwell. I wonder if the other towns are like Eastsea. I didn’t meet everyone but there seemed to be a lot of older people. Of Alex’s age, I mean. I wonder if in other towns there’ll be children. I wonder if I’ll ever have any. I see myself reflected in the dirty glass. I smile. I wonder if there’s someone out there, somewhere, that’ll like that smile. The rain stops, leaving a smooth darkness over the land beyond.

  *

  Crazy dreams aside, I’ve slept well. I count us in my half-sleep. We’re all here. Rags is sniffing around in the shop area. Nothing’s been left that’s useable. I have a final search inside the cupboards at the back of the desk. Deep in the back of one is an old metal oil can. Oil’s not much use to us here but I take it out anyway. I shake the can. It feels lighter and makes a sloshing sound that I wouldn’t expect from oil. Unscrewing the cap, I smell petrol instead. It smells right, not diluted. I fill up the bottle that I’d used to set the Hounds alight next to the woods. It’s always useful but dangerous to carry too much. I’m grateful. Anne pours a little into a bottle of her own. The rest we use on the Subs.

  To save fuel we’ve piled them all in a monstrous heap. Yes, they were human once but left that title a long time ago. A full moon illuminates the broken road in front of us. While the weather holds, we’ll make as much headway as possible and hopefully come across another town before too long.

  If our calculations are right, at some point in the next couple of days we should reach the far boundaries of the place I saw on my way to Eastsea. I say place. Apart from some fire, there’s no other evidence of civilised life there. I know there are Subs around – a few have already tried to make their acquaintance. I shudder briefly knowing there’ll be more to come. Focus, Mercy.

  I use my field glasses to check out the far distance. Even in the early morning the night capability is stunning. What greets me though isn’t. Huge swathes of dense trees indicate a massive forest in our way. We either go many miles out of our way to the left or right, or we cut right through. If we go left, we’ll be heading south-west, out of our loose plan entirely. Heading right will bring us at least parallel to the coast or even north-east, depending on the direction of the forest’s outer edge.

  As I look again, it seems to go on for miles each way so it’s hard to figure out how far off course we’d need to go to avoid it. Anne and Alex look too. They reckon, once the light improves, they can navigate us through. Alex says he has experience of Siberian forests.

  “Do you know this one?” I ask, unsure of the total relevance of Siberia.

  “I know of it. I thought we would have passed it though. I’m a bit out with the bearings. Only a bit,” he repeats for emphasis.

  It’s still a way off so if our nerve goes, we can follow the edge and hope it doesn’t stretch on for too many miles.

  “This is military land,” Alex continues. “There’s a keeper’s cottage a little way inside, to the right, if I remember correctly.”

  I don’t know how he can tell, especially in the dark and with the size of it but I keep quiet. I should be grateful for his knowledge and experience. Rags has cried on and off and it’s getting to me because I don’t know why. He’s staying closer to me than normal - it’s so unlike him. Through the cold morning darkness, the slightest slivers of light start to push their way through as the moon begins to recede.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  I’m surprised to see the toes of my boots are wet from the grass we tramp through. It means the water around here is cleaner, as usually we see straw or barren, broken ground. Even through the field glasses earlier, the trees looked thick and lush.

  We move more to the right on a diagonal as Alex prepares to spot any tell-tale signs of entrances, hidden or not. So far, there’s no big black bird soaring above us. Not yet anyway.

  I try to bring reason to the thoughts going through my aching brain. Yes, the woodland is an ideal place for animals or anything wanting to survive and hide, so it could be filled with all kinds of dark horrors, with little chance of a straight, coordinated escape for us. On the other hand, it’s an unlikely place for Subs to be hanging out. They prefer buildings – places and people to smash up and destroy. Hellhounds also prefer to strike human targets, though they’ll take Subs too if they get in their way.

  I change my thoughts. What I’m doing is willing confrontation and the worse scenarios I can imagine. I turn to what I want to happen. What I want is to take a wonder-filled walk through a beautiful forest, emerging unscathed having saved five miles rejecting a safer unnecessary journey avoiding the wood altogether. That’s what I want. I see myself emerging into bright sunshine, with Rags back to his old self instead of this whiney caricature. I’m being mean, I know. I don’t think he’s ill though. Something is bothering him and whatever it is, it’s getting worse. Focus, Mercy. We’re thirty yards from the forest edge as we turn right to walk parallel along it, searching for an entrance.

  We’ve been walking for what feels like fifteen minutes when Alex raises his good hand slowly. There’s a definite opening here when looked at closely. The outline of a track can be seen through the trees where branches have been allowed to grow in their own natural way, blocking what was a clear entrance. As Anne moves dark wood branches out of the way, a metal gate post is still rooted to the forest floor. Around ten feet across is a matching one. No gate. It’s certainly the correct place – well done, Alex.

  As we trample the bracken and branches to get through to the track, it’s possible to see fifty yards along before it turns into the unknown. I’m hoping that further in, the track carries on as Alex remembers it. It’s been over twenty years since he was here though.

  Rags is acting even weirder now. He had to move quickly into the thick brush as his bowels gave way, following a brief period of intense sweating. He’s back with me now but I’m sure he’s shaking. Maybe it’s the vastness of this place that’s spooking him out. I’m hoping it’s not some sixth sense that I’ve heard some animals have.

  Sister Evie holds her rifle steady and tight to her body as she constantly checks behind us. A rough-tied blue patterned bandana keeps her hair from her serious face. She’s not frowning but she’s on high alert. From the corner of my eye I think I see a large black bird.

  Reaching the first corner of the track, it bends to the right for thirty yards then straightens again. Further along the mud, perhaps three hundred yards away, is a small wood and stone house. It’s the keeper’s cottage that Alex mentioned earlier. Rags freezes as his hair stands on end. I try to encourage him on but it’s no use.

  After several minutes of coaxing and gentle reasoning, he starts to move, more of a shuffle with his tail between his legs. Alex and Anne have already reached the cottage and wait for us outside, weapons trained on a partly open front door. Anne goes in first, fast – arm outstretched with a Glock ready to fire.

  It’s clear. Of anything live anyway. The skeletons of three Hounds are scattered around the front room while laid in
the small back kitchen lay human remains – probably of the cottage keeper. Rags shakes in fear at the entrance until I call him.

  He walks through, delaying each step. Avoiding the long-dead Hounds, he gingerly pads into the kitchen, at almost crawling pace. He sits by the skeleton in the corner, licks the bones laying there then lies down with his head on the skeletal remains of the keeper’s chest. And cries. A long, desperate call of sorrow escapes his mouth, then silence.

  As we step back to allow this heart aching moment, I know exactly what’s been wrong. This was his home - the keeper was his master. After a few minutes, I put my head back in the kitchen. Rags jumps up, takes another long look at his best friend’s remains then runs the few steps to me.

  Almost everything in the cottage is covered in thick layers of dust. Leaded windows are cracked but unbroken, the frames wooden, solid and in fair condition. Rags leaves the small house, snarling as he passes the three skeletal Hounds. He sits outside and waits. It doesn’t seem to have been visited by Subs as the damage is limited to furniture bring knocked over, not smashed to pieces. I’m looking in kitchen cupboards when I hear Rags start to growl and bark. I call him in but he doesn’t respond. Anne and Sister Evie are out there too.

  I can smell them as they start to tear into the front door. I fire at a Hound descending fast on Holly as she’s firing round after round into it in mid-flight. It ploughs into her, knocking her down. It’s already dead but there are two more, dripping heavy, stinking saliva as they search for a victim. Alex fires from the stairs at the same time as I continue to shoot from the kitchen entrance. This is as close range as it gets. They’re larger, bulkier all round and take more bullets to bring them to a standstill. Three more Hounds add to the three ancient dead ones already on the front room floor. They take up much of the space as they finish bleeding out.

  It’s quiet outside - too quiet. I go quickly through to the front door to see Sister Evie and Anne bending over something while four of the largest Hellhounds I’ve seen so far, lay stone dead ten yards away. The sight rips my heart apart. Rags lays between the monsters, his head seeping blood. I run to him, hold his head in my arms and look straight into his soft eyes. My tears run hot onto his face as Sister Evie tries to staunch the flow of blood. As I look to my right, I notice for the first time, three medium-sized stone-covered mounds and pray we won’t need a fourth.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  “He tried to fight them,” Anne says quietly. “He really did. He must have known there was absolutely no chance he would survive their vicious onslaught but he didn’t run, not even back away.”

  I feel sick. Sister Evie is trying to save him. Once he’d made that commitment to defend by attacking, there could be only one outcome. Inside the house, Holly is standing, badly winded - the weight landing on top of her forced the air from her lungs. She’ll be okay - Alex is with her, his own arm seeping blood as he fell after downing one of the evil creatures - Anne prepares to change his wound dressing as I return to the kitchen. My tears are not helping Sister Evie or Rags at this moment.

  Just before the attack, I’d found a bunch of keys in a drawer by the sink. In a locked brick outhouse, I find a chipped, rusted spade. I bring out the remains of the cottage keeper, hoping one burial is all that’ll be required.

  Holly and I manage to collect enough medium and large sized stones to cover the burial mound as secure and tight as we can. Alex believes these will be the only Hounds in the forest, that the smell of excitement and blood would have attracted any others long before now. I want to scream at him, to tell him that Rags wouldn’t be hurt if not for his stupidity. Are we walking through these woods so he can reminisce about his military days? I stop and remember - he’s still in the military - just hasn’t had a pay cheque for near on a couple of decades. I’m being selfish. And mean. It could have happened anywhere, to any of us.

  I want to stop feeling sick. First Storm. Now it could be Rags. I want to scream at myself. All this despair, this negativity, this blame. It won’t bring her back or make Rags better. We remove the dead Hounds from the cottage, piling them away from the house before setting them alight - a firebreak preventing it from burning the forest down.

  As I resume the search of the kitchen cupboards, my hand brushes against some light plastic at the back of one. Reaching my arm in further, my fingers grip the back of an oblong shape. Dragging it out, I can’t believe what I just found.

  An outer carton of twelve boxes of large matches, still wrapped. I don’t know if they’ll still work but I carefully unwrap the polythene, putting it to one side and strike one of the long sticks against the side of a box. It lights straight away. Anne tells me they’re ‘safety matches’ and will only strike on the box side. I split the pack, and, using some of the plastic from the farm cellar, rewrap them, placing them into grateful hands.

  I head back outside, dreading what I may find. Sister Evie has patched the side of my hero’s head – I don’t know how she’s managed – I think I could see his skull before.

  “He’s very weak,” she says. “The next few hours are going to be a real test for him.”

  Anne’s made a stretcher from thick curtaining and wooden poles, the latter with branches salvaged from the droppings of towering birches. I help Sister Evie put Rags gently on – his eyes are shut but at least he’s still breathing.

  Sister Evie uses the padlock from the outhouse to fasten the broken front door, the best she can. We’ll never forget this place and it could be useful in emergencies if we ever need to turn back. Nobody voices this – it’s our mission to keep moving forward until we find another human settlement. Hopefully. Less than half the day is gone and we’ll need the hours ahead to clear the forest and find our next base. The dirt road continues past the cottage, stretching into the distance with no break from the tall, ancient trees on either side.

  It’s clear to see that this place survived the quakes pretty much intact. Even the road, carved out by countless military vehicles, looks undamaged. It’s overgrown but it’s unlikely anything’s been down here for many years. As we walk, I think of the man who kept the cottage. Alex thinks it’s probably the same person who was there when he took part in exercises here.

  I don’t know how old Rags is. He seemed to be fit and healthy when we first saw him so I’m guessing at ten years old maximum, probably younger. I wonder how long he’d been wandering around on his own and the extent of his loneliness when he came across us. The graves at the cottage are most likely that of his mum and perhaps of siblings too.

  I think of the fragile transience of life and the insignificance of myself in a vast universe. I don’t dwell too long on that, floating it away on another cloud I no longer need. While I’m here, I’m me, and that counts for something. I’ll do my best. I’ll be brave and selfless and compassionate and, yes, even brutal if necessary. I’ll also dream. I’ll dream of the little house that invades my sleep, the faceless husband and beautiful child, and the sea – not perpetually crashing violently and destructively, but gently, providing life and nourishment. Focus, Mercy.

  There’s no evidence nearby that there were any military exercises happening at the time of the mess. It’s a large forest though so there could be vehicles or other equipment somewhere else. We don’t have the time to search - reaching the outer edge of this place is our short-term goal - without added hindrance if possible. Collectively, we’re in a sombre mood. The attack on Rags has shaken us - not only because he’s a part of us but a reminder that Hellhounds act quick and without mercy.

  It’s vital that the Hounds are wiped out eventually but we know that even if villages and towns look clear of them, there’ll always be places, especially in the wilder reaches, that they can hide and even thrive. There’s only one way to ensure, over time, that they are eradicated for good. Changing the water. All of it. I’ve seen how fast it can be cleansed when healed properly, spreading quickly as it flows. There are vast areas of water though, and as Sister Maria said,
it’s likely to be a global problem. We can do it.

  My confidence takes me by surprise. How it can be accomplished is something to worry about later. Right now, there’s a will. Wanting something, envisioning its existence, is half the battle. I wanted to find Alex, and it happened. He could have stayed, based in Eastsea, running around as an eternal adventurer and questionable hero. But he’s here. Part of the plan. I’m grateful.

  More light filters through the high trees in gold and silver strands. As the colours of the woodland become clearer, I can see how the forest floor has suffered. The trees aren’t dead, that’s plain enough but the water feeding their roots is not good – any lushness must come from rainfall, not underground. There must be a local water source that supplies this vast area - I pray we find it so a reversal can begin.

  The further we progress along the track, the greater the change in temperature. It’s a lot warmer than an hour ago, which was much warmer than the hour before that. It can only mean that we’re well into the second half of the forest. Alex never came this far before. He says that units branched off through the trees, mainly on foot though we have passed some evidence of older, overgrown, smaller tracks that would have been used by vehicles.

  Despite poor irrigation, the woodland has endured, emitting a fresh scent of resinous oil, pine, and lemon. My experience of different smells and tastes is limited but when I come across something different, it stays forever – my memory bank of wondrous things. It’s past noon now as we round a bend in the track to be greeted by a blast of sunlight, welcoming us to the outer edge of the great wood. As I break through the final, overgrown branches and scrub, I feel a deep sense of relief to leave the place that showed me so much heartache.

  The relief lasts only for a minute as a hammer blow brings me to my knees.

  From the corner of my eye I see Sister Evie and Holly run to me. I feel like I can’t breathe, that the pressure in my chest is going to explode. I hear Anne telling me to breathe slowly. I do, I try and I think I am. I’m crying too. I don’t want to but I can’t stop the heavy tears from falling. It hurts and the salt water stings my eyes. Exhaling with wheezing, forced hot breath, I manage to stand. As my breathing starts to return to normal, the crushing pain in my chest begins to recede. I look around, embarrassed.